#114 Imagination

#114 Imagination

“Hello, reality. Are you there?” I shouted into empty space.

“What do you think?” I heard inside my head.

“I’ve been told you’re really not real,” I said

“Quantum ideas about me being imaginary abound,” Reality said, “but you’re real to me. Why do you think I don’t exist?”

“Physicists say you may exist only in my mind,” I shouted in Reality’s face if it was there; that is.

“If I’m not real, how do you explain the things you see and touch?”

I scratched my head. It was there all right. “How am I to know if it’s me creating these things? It could be another’s mind creating me.”

“So you don’t think you exist?” Reality asked.

I pinched myself, and it hurt.

“How can you feel if you’re not here?”

“I may feel because I’m the one who is dreaming, and I may be dancing in another’s mind and only take the steps I’m instructed to?” I took a few rumba steps to demonstrate to Reality that I could dance.

“You think your dreamer made you take those steps?”

“I used to believe that the dance I did was the one I chose, but the physicists have gotten me confused. Tell me, Reality, can it be that I’m not alone and that you are there with billions of minds connected by a gently flowing stream of consciousness benevolent to all with every part having a mind of its own?”

“Is that what you believe?”

Damn, Reality is answering my questions with questions.

“I believe this consciousness flows like a raging river filled with turbulence and rapids, rolling everyone’s thoughts that can never unify and meld into one.”

“Why would you think that?” it asked.

There it goes again, question after question. I can’t get angry though because Reality wants to know my thoughts. By answering the questions, I help myself to understand it.

“I think you’re nothing but a whirlpool of thought thrown against the rocks that I see as life, and I’ll forever remain fragmented and unknown to any others afloat on this tributary of consciousness that flows throughout space.” How is he going to answer that with a question?

“So you think that all the loathsome events facing you and what you perceive as the human race is nothing but quantum images, and not authentic at all?”

Damn, he did it again. “How do I know whose world I’m in? Is my life the topic of someone’s imaginary world, or another’s dream and once they awake, will I face what I see as death?”

“Maybe a lifetime to your dream person is only one night’s sleep to you.”

Hah, finally a straight statement from my Reality.

“Is that how my life is measured in reality? Are my years numbered by a sleeping giant? When I dream, do I create another life like mine and during the time I’m asleep allow it to live out its time. When I have sex, is my partner there, or is that part of the dream? When I think I’m awake and have control of what I do, am I experiencing this life as real or is it only a dream?”

“So many questions.  To find out, record your dreams to discover that if when you sleep in this life, you travel to another existence in another place.” Finally, some positive input from reality.

I did as told and discovered that reality is where my mind is. Here or there, it doesn’t matter if I’m not awake. I like this life and want to stay awake, so I don’t go into a dream state and live in that other place. I take drugs to keep me awake for days, and when I finally sleep, I learn my other self has transformed from a being into a star. That’s where people go after they die in my other place. I wonder if that’s why I think of hell as fire and brimstone now that I know in my next life, I’ll be a burning star.

“Is that true?” Reality asks.

“Get real, Reality, I can be anything I want and you can’t stop me because you and everything else is in the part of my mind that is called imagination.”

Doctor Jones, my psychiatrist, who had patiently listened to my entire conversation said, “What does your reality look like?”

“I just explained it to him; do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, no, I meant, the Reality you were speaking to, what does he look like?”

“Like one mean son-of-a-bitch.”

“You’ve got that right,” Doctor Jones said as he signed my release papers.

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