Every-time I hear of another incident created against humanity I feel as if I am living in another universe. But this post is not intended to address that. That in itself is such a huge topic; I‚Äôll leave it for another time. But it makes me question whether we have always inhabited these other-worlds, and, consciously or unconsciously, do we make the journey with the possibility of never returning to our known worlds.
There are two ‘known‚Äô worlds, both equally real. In one live facts and history, in the other, are stories and dreams. The two worlds mirror one another and unfold in parallel; we are condemned to live in the first and only imagine the next.
But straddled across them is a fragile path that only storytellers and children can see. Philosophers call it a metaphor.
We live in one world where a gun fired becomes the dead, too much rainfall becomes a flood; a voice against a government becomes last words said.
I like to think of the second world or dream world as a garden, a place where a boy could become a bird.
In it float thousands of red balloons that that no bullet can pop. A pianist plays Beethoven in the rubble and mud. Wars are fought with actual roses, ceasefires declared in verse.
Reality is what you make of it. If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. But sad and jaded grownups, who live on this side of the garden, can only imagine.
‚ÄėTo see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.‚Äô
William Blake, Auguries of Innocence
But if storytellers and children can see it, then our dream world is just as real as our factual world.