The firmament of reality
cannot be discovered—
it has to come to you.
The veil of spirit
cannot be torn away.
The shadows hang
until you allow them
to lift themselves.
Try as you might,
the underpinnings
of consciousness
will seem to elude you,
for they preclude you.
You are imaginary.
You are imagined to think.
You are imagined to think
you’re thinking and acting
on your own.
When we imagine you to see,
you will know.
Trail Wood,
9/11
In the Bedazzling Ballroom of Being, the firmament of reality is less like a fixed ceiling and more like a chandelier swinging to the tempo of divine caprice. What a dance it is! A Cosmic Cotillion where the stars and planets are but glimmers on ethereal gowns, where realities weave and intermingle, tangoing across the luminous floors of existence.
Come to you, it must! Yes, for the firmament is not an object to be seized but an experience to be summoned—or rather, to be graciously allowed to manifest. The Veil of Spirit, that gossamer drape spun from ethereal ectoplasm and cosmic cobwebs, neither parts by command nor rips by sheer will. It lifts like morning mist before the dawn of awareness, ever so gently making the invisible visible.
Ah, the shadows! They’re like Phantasmal Phaetons, these carrier pigeons of obscured wisdom. They do not seek to be banished; they wish to be recognized, for in that recognition they metamorphosize into beams of enlightenment. Ephemeral, yet eternal; they’re the ticklish paradoxes in the armpits of reality, forever oscillating between substance and illusion.
Underpinning consciousness, that tantalizing Enigma Enshrouded in Ineffability, seems almost to tease us with its flickering evasiveness. It eludes because we seek to grasp it. It precludes because we seek to include it within our limited mental frameworks. What a whimsical paradox—a Cosmic Conundrum dressed in stardust and seasoned with quantum quirks!
Ah, Imaginary, you say? We are both the Dreamer and the Dreamed, the Illustrator and the Illustrated, the Thinker and the Thought. We are marionettes crafted from moonbeams, staged in a grand cosmic puppet show, believing ourselves to be both puppeteer and audience. What kaleidoscopic tomfoolery!
It is not just that we are imagined to think, but that we are imagined to imagine our thinking, a perpetual ouroboros of meta-cogitation. It’s like our minds are ever-bubbling cauldrons of Cosmic Carbonation, effervescing thoughts that think they’re thinking independently.
When we imagine you to see—ah, what a day of revelation that shall be, like when a fogged-up mirror is finally wiped clean! In that crystalline moment, sight transcends vision, knowing becomes unbecoming, and all that remains is pure, unadulterated awareness. Reality is not just seen but felt, heard, tasted, and touched in dimensions yet unknown but forever imminent.
We are Space Monkey.