It’s a strange thing, life. Very strange. For one thing, it’s dream. A very elaborate, well-fleshed out dream, but a dream nonetheless, and when you die, rather than waking up to a truer reality, you wake up to a blank eternity. Strange, how insubstantial, and fleeting it all is. It makes one mind wibble and wobble like jelly to think of it.
And how insular every little life is. How separate, and alone. How astounding it is, that right now, there are billions of other lives spinning and weaving their courses, each one of them just as important to the person experiencing it as your life is to you. How silently we weep and grieve. Right now, there could be people losing their families, getting raped, crushed to bloody pulps under the weight of tragedies more than a human soul can bear, and yet I sit here, in my own little fortress, in front of the computer, quite unharmed and untouched. We don’t care when other bubbles shatter. We just care when our own one does, and when they do, how desperately we wish others could hear our screams.
And how silent births are! Mouths may wail and scream at the touch of air, but we are far away and cannot hear them. Thousands, millions of new consciousness are being blown into being all over the world every hour, every day, like a froth of bubbles, a spool of new, slimy frog eggs. What talents they will bring, what love, what hate, what creations, what misery, and what nothing, for you and I both know men and women who live lives that produce naught but wind and illusions. And how silent deaths are, too! So silent. Men and women and children lie in beds, in cars, beneath bridges, on carpets, on the street, in mid-sentence, spoon poised over mouth, and grow still and grey and ashen like pewter statues. And down they topple. They fall in their thousands, like a shower of ants, a shower of sand. How small. It is like the wheat fields: the old are plowed down to make way for the new stalks, again and again, grow and die and grow and die, flashing yellow and green and yellow and green.
Ah! It is but a fantastical dream that repeats itself, in a phantasmagorical multitude, through the pixelated eyes of a grand fly, forever and ever.
But we do have things to make the dreaming more pleasant, things like money and food and love and family and friends and art. That’s nice, isn’t it? I think it’s nice. And we can make the dreams of others more pleasant, because it’s all the one dream, if you really think about it, we’re all dreaming the same dream and each others’ dream, and why not help everyone have sweeter slumbers? It’s always good to drink a bit of milk before you go to bed. You can share your pillows. We can all work together to make softer pillows for our heads to rest upon. And we can make art that will fizzle and sputter in dreams like fireworks, displays that can go on long after the creator has woken up.
Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams.