Clarity of Dream

I stood at the edge of the lake, the waves a tiny ripple lapping against my boots.  I had five stones in my hand.  Smooth, round, the rough jagged spiky edges worn down by eons of water rushing over them.  I tossed them lightly in my hand, the clatter of the hard surfaces against each other, a pleasant accompaniment to the absolute stillness of birds chirping, water striking shore with a low gentle plop.  On the far side, the sun had just about peeked over the  horizon’s edge.  I waited, my thoughts empty of commentary, a smile rising from within. 

This is where its at, I thought, briefly.  Trying to limit my thoughts, to minimal functional existence.  Drinking in the scenery.  Direct sight.  You are part of the beauty.  You are part of the light.  You are part of the darkness.  Not as a separate individual fitting into a cosmic jigsaw.  No fucking crap of interconnectedness.  You are here.  Borderless.  Lawless.  United.  One.  You are. 

But these are just words.  And every word, every description, is a filter.  An addition to the blindness we all live in… 

There was a tear against the fabric of my universe.  Somebody trying to interject.  Trying to provide an alternate point of view.  Let’s discuss this, the voice said.  There is more than one way to skin a cat.  A reasoned calculated motivated justified point of view.  All bent over with purpose.  Shouldering the weight of the world.  Atlas-fucking-shrugged.  Every joy driven by motivation.  Eked out of the dry dust bowl of desire.  Pride, jealousy, hate, and even love.  Loaded.  Trigger happy.  Letting it rip.  This is the purpose of life.  He said.  This.  Pointing to the buildings reaching for the skyline.  The machines diving into the earth. His eyes, round saucers of deepest sincerity.  A Missionary of Reason out to save the lost.   And words, he said in hushed reverence, words are the holiest of them all.  Separates us from the beasts.  Gives shape to what we sculpt.  Out of thin air.  The thrill of wonderment that ran through him was almost orgasmic. 

A momentary shudder of revulsion shot through me.  A few years ago I would have reacted differently.  I would have cackled in derision and reached for a knife.  My evil bean erupting in pure hate.  Or, depending on which edge of the pendulum of perspective I was at,  I would have keeled over. 

Yas Sah Mastah Sah, I would have droooled and dribbled, stumbling outta my Uncle Tom’s Cabin at the edge of rationality.  I would have sucked in the spittle from the side, sprang up, cheery summer sunshine, snapped a hot salute, kissed my capitalist and communist comrades, hugged my hindu-muslim-sikh-christian-buddhist friends, knotted my tie, and joined the 8 am office rush. 

But my sucking up days were over as were my killing days.  You can’t kill.  They just keep coming back worse than ever.  Even worse, you can’t suck up.  Even if its just for camouflage.  Mama Wisdom, you can hear her heartbreak at every street corner.  Besides, they’ve given orders: Flush out the fakers.  Don’t want anything but bonafide believers to man the system.   Believe or be excommunicated is the new message.  And nobody wants to be lonely.

I sighed.  Ancient history. 

I told the visitor, It’s over.  Gently prised my thoughts loose.  Watched them fly away, free, into the horizon.  Freedom.  The smell is delicious. 

I reached for my Trowel of Separation.  To repair the breach.  The peacableness of my universe required only one.  Me.  He began to shudder, cold turkey like, fading away, the gravitational tug of the cosmos, dismembering his theories.  And I forced myself to recall.  With all the clarity of dream.  Compassion hit me where it hurts the most, almost breaking me in two.  Loneliness is beautiful.  Especially when its shared.  She whispered.   

Ha.  Walked straight into that one now did we.  Whaddya call it?  Contradictions making out cozier than kissing cousins? Aldous Huxley called it life.  That’s a good enough definition don’t you think?