All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.
You are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream, a creature of your imagination.
Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane—like all dreams
You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream
We don’t exist, we are comprised of identities we are given and ideas we have adopted. We are made up of data we are fed, stories we hear, information we consume, opinions and convictions we decide to mimic and follow. We are naught but a construct of things we encounter and are programmed with that exist around us. Never an original thought, opinion, persona. Even in dreams we cannot create a face we have not seen while waking. Everything in our world and minds is limited to this universe. Every deity - no matter how fantastic- has pieces of animals or features or attributes that exist in this world already. No creation or idol is not of this world just distorted and mixed with more which is known. We are a machine that needs fuel, and is sustained by a mechanical pump, and functions with electrical wires from a computer brain. We are made from things that exist around us, metals, gasses, water.. we create our own insane dream- paper, metal, stones from the earth, decided as valuable and agreed to be strived for so hard and so fixedly. We decided to make paper and metal coins and decided to absurdly have to work for and struggle for the things that grow and exist and fill this earth naturally. And we carry on with such an insane empty unfounded act… so obviously mental and wrong.
We see the cycles go round and round. And know the planets go around and around. An orbit that is endless and constant like a train on a track. Like a mechanical clock. And no one wonders what or why it’s on a loop. Why nothing lasts. Why when we die our atoms are recycled into this flawed, imperfect, cycle of birth and death and never gaining anything but physical man made items and titles and personalities. Temporary. Pointless. Worthless
Maybe we don’t wake up because we cling to our illusions- our material collections, our fictional lives we have built and created and painted.
blakekathryn
titsay
theartofmadeline
2087
origamiaround
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
