Layers Of Truth; Lies Of Lies

The shining sun through the curtains. The salty, refreshing breeze intruding through the opened window. Outside, the waves crashing on the rocky shore, the seagulls feasting. Oh, and a silent melody, hanging in the air, that no one can hear. Yet its serene notes resonate through time, in this tiny corner of paradise you call home.

You look up from the words you just wrote, there on your notebook. Such empty ideas. You put down the pen and get up, stretching. You pour yourself some peach juice and bottoms up-

You take out your favourite vinyl, and handling it carefully you place it in your turntable. Dropping the needle, the music fills the house with a crescendo of violin and cello. At the same time clouds passes by, claiming the sun rays for themselves. A chill. Goosebumps all over you, and you turn around, to the front door, now wide open. You notice there on the ground the carpet is inversed. ''Did you bring wine?'' you can read on it. You close the door shut.

At last the blessed sunlight shines once more through the curtains, and what a sight to behold. It's orange divine rays ooze in and sanctify the house, the floor, and you, so warm and comforting it is.

You close your eyes. Your mind, empty of anything, except perhaps bliss, gratefulness... And the hint of a doubt?

You open your eyes once more to this peaceful haven of yours, and notice something familiar, something empty; the way things are, the distant nature of the music, almost wavering away in incertainty. Of the repeating sounds, of the too vibrant paint on the walls, of the way the sun shines a bit too bright, a bit too warmly.

You burst out of the house, kicking the door open, and outside you see it, the flame, casting shadows on the stone wall. The blinding, cruel flame, and the mere silouhettes, the objects casting shadows on your mind.

A house.

The sun.

And you!

There, you, a vulgar concept at the end of a stick, unceremoniously brandished, for a time, in front of the flame, its shadow spreading long and thin across time and space, coalescing in yourself, this grotesque creature so willing to see and feel, this absurd creature, so naive.

And so you turn away from the unwavering flame, source of all lies. You turn away and look up to the sun in all its glory. You run toward the cliffside, so tiny you are there high above the rocky shores below, where the splashing of the waves and the chaos of the sea face the immovable wall of the land, deafening ruckus, undeniably real.

Closing your eyes once more to a fountain of resolve, you let go of everything, you reject it all in favor of the one ideal, truth.

You let yourself fall down to certain death, much more certain indeed that all this is a mere farce, a sick joke. Your courage is struck down by the hammer of terror as you fall down the cold watery air, at such speed and with such fatality that your mind falters and panics at once, bracing for impact you scream silently and cover your face with your arms, as if that would change anything.

Yet of course you awake, suddenly, and with no heavy eyes for you have no more eyes; gone is this body of yours, and after a second of grief, of distant hazy regret you look around, well you observe around you, to the overwhelming nature of your newfound sensory abilities. Around you isn't a place stuck in time, as you experienced all your life. Around you is everything at all time, and you can see all of it at once. Dizzying and overwhelming, you faint yet the spectacle perdure, and you can't help but take it all in, clumsily.

And after witnessing everything there was, there is, and will be, you can't help but look inward at last. Inward where you realize now is the only source, the only origin of Truth. There it was, all along!

Shining beacon, blinding lighthouse amidst the deadly mist of the barbed wire that is reality.

In the midst of winter, you found there was, within you, an invincible summer. That no mere shadows flame or window to all of reality itself can hinder, can extinguish, for this is Truth, beyond any doubts.

Truth, certainty, bliss. Not in some external source, of some objective concept of worship, but in oneself, in oneself! The self, eternal, triumphant, undeniable. In other words, the only oasis, the sole heaven, the lone paradise of your boundless mind.

For is there anything more real, anything more certain, anything more true than the mind? Master of all things and slave to them too. Yet only once you close your eyes, empty your thoughts and face yourself can you see it, the you, the true you, the only you there ever is, beyond this MASQUERADE, this silly spectacle that is life.

The essence of yourself, this spinning black hole that is your self-consciousness, positive feedback loop of eyes looking at eyes looking at eyes, of two mirors creating an infinity, corridor of the soul.

You wonder, of course, will you awake once more? To something beyond all this, or perhaps close your eyes forever more, to a pitch black emptiness as you stare and nothing stares back? Or perhaps to eternal reccurence, to relive in an absurd way your life over and over and over and over and over and over- Maybe reincarnate as a higher being or as a silly worm, or come face to face with anubis, your heart and the feather? Or become one with the Unity of all things. To go back to energy, and become part of the world as you once did not so long ago?

Oh what can you do, really, but think about thinking about thinking, and hope to reach, to approach, to graze truth, to burn yourself on truth and smile through the providential revelation, timely epiphany-

What can you do, then, but hope this pinnacle of truth isn't simply one more lie, hidden amongst all the others, hiding three hundred more, ten thousand times, grasping at nothing really, mere lies of lies?