(#5 – Kauniita Unia – julkaistiin alunperin 13.9.2011, taso on… itse asiassa yllättävän kiva :D ottaen huomioon, että kyseessä on sanasta-sanaan transkripti kirjoituksesta, jonka ilmeisesti kirjoitin, vailla minkäänlaista muistikuvaa jälkikäteen, Kirjaan ollessani tuon vuoden kovimmassa kuumeessa toista vai oliko kolmatta päivää :P)
Ensi kertaa ikinä, tulee teksti vierahilla kielillä. Eläkää sen kanssa :P
I actually like being feverish. It’s an exceptionally overwhelming experience, or rather a set of experiences. Shivering from the cold while sweating away, buried under a mound of blankets. Feeling too tired to twitch a finger, yet unable to cease shaking. The incredible sensation of overly receptive senses.The third-best thing is dreaming, Oh, how furiously psychedelic and vibrantly ingenious the dreams are! On second place, on some level separate from the dreams, are hallucinations. For example, floating through empty space in a bed, that doesn’t actually feel, look or in any way actually resemble a bed. The contradiction is just lovely. I lay still in a bed, while, at the very same time, I’m hovering nowhere particular in a bed that’s not actually a bed, but rather like a hand, albeit one that is very much akin to a plant, that seems to have forgotten who it is and now acts like a spoon, that’s completely gaseous and has no colours whatsoever, except for mauve, lila, blue, ochre, yellow and a very light green. And a tiny hint of mint.
The best and the worst are the tiny moments of sombriety amidst the horribly enthralling chaos. It is at these moments I realize that using my hand as a stove wouldn’t actually work, and using the other hand as a frying pan would be certainly not be a profitable idea. These are the times of the greatest joy, as it is in these precious specks of time that I realize I am capable of anything in the dreams, and completely safe at the same time, as I am too tired to leave the bed. Now, with just a bit of concentration I should be able to make true the wildest of dreams…
SHAZAM! Two minutes or two hours later, I once again gain proper consciousness and notice I haven’t actually dug a tunnel through the roof to find liquid ice, that’s worth absolutely nothing in the global markets, that are, by the way, not going up or down, but inwards. And I realize that trying to concentrate didn’t work, at all. There’s certainly things I’d rather do than analyze the stock market in 4D.
These moments of clarity are also the worst. Why? Because they force on me the fact that the human body is horribly frail, and the soul even more unstable. The thermometer’s off by a couple of degrees and we’re off to a new world and a half. The bed is not on fire, and I am not an ember, although I quite liked the hat it/I was wearing. The precious sense of balance decides to take a break, and so a few bones in our bodies have a break, as well. Hello, how are you? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I will not be the ship’s captain for this journey. At least I don’t think I am. How would I know? If I have made myself sternly believe I am a cloud, floating underwater while playing the bagpipes, why should I believe this day is any more real? That this bed, this book, this pen are real? Why should I believe this life is real? Why should I believe I am real?
At this point, the enlightened reader will huff and puff and mutter “cogito, ergo sum”. Quite right, too, but I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry. I am not a gerbil, nor do I think dear old René was thinking along the same lines as I am. I might be thinking, but how can I be sure who this “I” is? Perhaps I am a product of a schizophrenic hallucination; if so, I am proud of my “host”, for this poor, mentally damaged someone has truly created quite a plot indeed. This interpretation would also help explain, and live with, a certain feeling of inadequateness: if I cannot control my dreams nor my life, why should the one whose dream I am living? My life is equally eccentric to that of the one that’s responsible for mine. Perhaps, If I choose to believe it and manage to send a message of it “outwards” in this unorthodox, mental matryushka doll, I might actually be able to use my hand as a frying pan, or play the bagpipe while diving, or see the world in 4-and-a-half-D, or have every step down propel me upwards, or even alter the laws of physics. But how far would that specific effect reach? Who are all the other people in the world? Whose idea is the world? Perhaps it is mine own, perhaps it is of my host’s creation. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Perhaps it is born of a collective effort, by all the flawed minds of the level above this one, trapped in a make-believe world. A lovely thought, actually. An ideal conglomeration of the insane. Or, at least, of their sub-alter egoes. Sub-egoes?
Just maybe, yes. The world is of the dreamer’s creation, it is maintained by their vivid imagination. The inhabitants are a by-product of the frail mind, an outlet for everything that couldn’t otherwise be incorporated into the world. Of everything too gruesome for their fantastic creation, the only thing of beauty they could produce… Well, at least it gives them an interaction of sorts between each other. As I’m sure our sub-egoes do as well, in whatever form we might dream them into existance.
There are so many of us: how huge must the world outside us be, that a tiny fraction of its populace, namely those cursed or blessed with a spirit separated from the rest of their world, accounts for several billion personae? What is the outside world like, that so many have been driven to or have chosen to flee it to a fantasy world of their own creation? Are they in a manner of Hell and trying to divert their attention from the torments? Maybe the end of the world already happened, and we’re just a manifestation of its aftermath. Maybe we are a nightmare. Maybe we are the dreamers: maybe we have already experienced the end of the world, and now, torn in body and soul, reason expelled, our only retreat from the purgatory in dreams, memories and imagination entwined.
If we are a product of a tormented mind, why wouldn’t our dreamers, too, be a projection? And their masters, as well? As the principles of induction show, there may then be an endless cascade of realities – or, indeed, falsities. Is there a supreme dreamer, whose imagination all the imaginations are?
It’s nice to know a single person’s acts won’t really matter. Not in the great expanse of time, whatever it is in this context, nor in the endless vastness of transcendental existances. I am borne of a sick mind, or of a bored mind, or of a drugged mind, or of a mind torn to shreds.
Nothing is real.
Everything is permitted.