Eye Makes [the] World Blind (Part II)

The first part, which I wrote on June 22, 2009, started with this line, “I am writing about a writer who writes about a writer dreaming about himself writing about his dreams.”

When I write, I just let my thoughts flow like running water. My mind wanders parallel to the turbulence of the flow; it squeezes freely into the spaces in between of the grains of sand. There’s no end. No boundaries. No direction of any sort. I even said in that note that, “…I find it strange that I don’t have the freedom to decide what my writer has to tell; nor do I have the liberty to design what my dreamer has to see.”

After reading it again after a year, I was greatly mystified by what I discovered.

Two things:

First, that this note I wrote on June 22, 2009 was actually my very existence today. Meaning, it was not meant to be written at that time. It never happened that time. It stupefies me that it’s happening just now, like a foretold story.

Second, that it was a complete reversal of what was actually real. The writer who was writing about his dreams (the 3rd layer existence) – who was being dreamed of by a writer (the 2nd layer existence) which the latter was finally being written by me (the projected “real” existence) – was actually the REAL thing.

I re-started writing about my dreams on July 26, 2010. A day before that, I found a book in Booksale Makati Square about the meaning of man’s existence and the ways of the subconscious. After flipping on some of its pages, I told myself I would write all my dreams again like I had done in high school and college days. When I made that decision, at dawn following that day I bought the book, I dreamed six different dreams. I remembered all of them. I grabbed my cellular phone and typed in the details. This practice has continued until today. I would wake up in the middle of the night and type my dreams in my cellular phone. Then, I would go back to sleep. And then, I would dream again and I would wake up again. And again, and again.

   *** *** ***

Time is not real. It has no dimension, no energy, no life. It is the trickiest magic of all. It does not exist. A very simple experiment would prove this right. Lock yourself in a room for how many “days”, without windows and clocks, just a constant light. For sure, in a “day” or “two”, you will still have a hint of the passing of “time”; but sooner, you will certainly lose track of it. If something were true like time, if it were a universal principle, then it should be applicable in all conditions.

What does it mean to accept that time does not really exist? When you believe that there is no time, you will have to admit that there is neither beginning nor end. It will argue with the conception of “creation” and “death”. It will change the meaning of living. That our existence is forever. That we are eternal.

When you go further, you will realize that matter is just like time – that in infinite terms, it does not exist. A very simple test would also prove this right. Get a high-powered microscope and look into you flesh. Zoom in a little. Zoom in more. You will see that your body is composed of atoms, and then, protons, neutrons, electrons, quarks…and then an empty “space”. Try to do this experiment using your Starbucks coffee or Nokia phone. Is it not perplexing that it is also composed of the same atoms…and then “space”?

You will realize that absolutely everything in this world is composed of that “space” – even the air we breathe and the soil we stand on. If you will zoom in everything all at once and view them right next to each other like arranging a puzzle, you will see that all is nothing but ONE single “space”. That we are all but ONE.

*** *** ***

Why do we look different then?

August 10, 2010

Eye Makes [the] World Blind (Part I)

I am writing about a writer who writes about a writer dreaming about himself writing about his dreams.

To tell you, neither I nor any of the characters involved in this multi-layered plot can distinguish the real from the unreal. Even if I am the ultimate writer, it doesn’t add authority because my hands are cuffed, my eyes are covered with thick dark cloth, and my mind is wrapped all over in barbs. It is not easy to accept – and I find it strange – that I don’t have the freedom to decide what my writer has to tell; nor do I have the liberty to design what my dreamer has to see. This is a rare happening when and where I exist, at the least, only as a spectator like you and everybody else reading this story; and, at the most, a weaver of these narratives like myself at this very moment.

I don’t know how it goes. It is as though my writer has his own world entirely independent from mine. He breathes with his own lungs and thinks with his own mind. I can sense him sitting right next to me, dictating the words I should use, directing the flow, commanding the structure. I can even smell his breath and sweat like scents of any living soul.

Like when I breathe out at the height of my excitement.

Like when I sweat after a fervent love affair.

And my dreamer, my dreamer who writes about his dreams, also seems to exist separately from me and my writer. I don’t have any idea how he remembers his dreams and expresses them vividly as real as the fact that every living thing dies. Sometimes, I suspect that my writer and my dreamer connive. Do they communicate with each other more often than how frequently I speak with each of them? Do they share memories and hide those that they want to keep secretly? I wonder if they meet each other.

And if they do?

June 22, 09
12:10 am – 12:30am

ant in a glass of chocolate drink

She was nine years old and had thoughts and manners way ahead of her age.

She was introvert and despised mingling with other kids who had blunt and bloody lunchboxes, kept silly-dully stationeries, and boasted off horrible models of synthetic life forms like robots and dolls. To be fair, she didn’t hate those kids; only the thought of herself having or doing those same stupid things. Her attitude, her seeming loneliness, was as natural to her as the fact that every living thing dies.

The only person she was comfortable to talk with was her seatmate. She thought she didn’t need a lot of people to kill time with.

“Since you’re my seatmate and that left me with no other option – unless I tell our teacher you’re pissing me off, but that would sound rather unbelievable considering your submissive looks, I choose you to be my buddy.”

Seatmate, eyes on her, didn’t know what to say.

“One human being is enough to fool around with in this time-maneuvered decrepit world”, her mind spoke in silence.

So, that was it and that was all – she detested time. She was anti-time. She diminished it; abhorred, insulted, waged war against time. Her middle finger couldn’t resist erection every time it would mock her.

One morning, she asked her seatmate why people had invented time. “How did it evolve that it could be broken down to years and hours and seconds and what have fucking you? Who the hell made such ambiguous illusion like time? That person gets into my nerves!” Leaving these unanswered caused her painful recurring dreams.

Because of time, she lost the appetite to many different things. Like sports.

“The hell with bats or balls and cheer dancing.”

She didn’t make it a hobby to play any game like a child would. She didn’t even touch a single stone on the ground, nor kick them like how other children kick stones and roll them down the road from school to home. For her, “Only goofs fool the stones.” She felt humans should not step on the sensibilities of stones. “They have no lives as far as our science describes what life is. Don’t you think they are actually better off – having no life; thus, having no death?”

Seatmate said, “U-huh.”

On a Friday afternoon, when she and her seatmate were heading to their school, she got extremely disturbed thinking about stones again, that in their midst of utter silence, she suddenly yelled, “Why could people not understand stones?! What if they were in the stones’ position, would they enjoy being helplessly juggled out or thrown away for the rest of their lives? It makes me sick! It makes me sick thinking that scientists could have screwed up their research and that the stones are actually on a higher scale of evolution, so high they could exist in harmony and peace. And we, the poor human beings, are at the bottom. We are at the lowest point of this evolution that we could not even understand what happiness is and what matters most to us.”

Seatmate just bowed his head, looked at his feet, counted his steps.

She liked her seatmate because he never went against her, as if her seatmate didn’t even care of anything that she’d been saying. Like a human cardboard. And that’s the perfect person she wanted to get along with: a submissive human cardboard.

At a recess, while her seatmate was munching on his tuna sandwich, she asked him, “Why do we exist? Had our parents not made us, where do you think we’d have been? Why does a couple create babies in the first place?”

Her seatmate gulped and said, “They say because of love.”

“Because of love?! I can’t handle that absurdity. Do they even know what damn love is?! They say we were made out of love but look around buddy, everyone’s beheading roaches and ants, killing themselves and their children by smoking packs of cigarettes a day, kicking stones. Do you think that’s love? Is it love to give tremendous assignments to students like us, solving unreasonable equations and finding that arrogant missing x or writing What-I-Did-Last-Summer-Vacation over and over again? Do you think swallowing dick and semen is love, like what we overheard from the upper class?”

She demanded an overhaul of her being. “Why I couldn’t just be love? Just love. A pure concept. Why I couldn’t be a period? An information? The number 8? Gravity? Shadow? Nightmare?”

Pause.

“Buddy, why do we have form? I really hate symmetry. I hate physique. I don’t like my nose, my ears. Ears look weird, right? I don’t want to be distinguished. I hate our teacher calling my name! I don’t want my name being mentioned by someone, summoning me to answer and explain. I just want to think as if thinking is all that exists of me. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to hear blow job or testosterone from upper classmen. I just want to be pure mind. Just mind.”

Silence.

“Do you think I am being unfair?”

No answer from her seatmate. He was just staring at an indefinite space, as if a daydream was drifting him away. Or probably he felt dizziness after eating a whole lot of sandwich. Little did he know that she was already crying. A cry that was so deep she couldn’t burst out with tears. It was so deep her sobbing and weeping couldn’t make any sound. But her gestures were enough for him to notice that she was crying.

She covered her face with her two hands. Then, she planted her face on the table with arms crossed in front of her dumped head.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“That’s what I really like about you. You do not ask me why. You are just here. Your presence and absence comfort me.”

“It’s all that I can do.”

“I am crying because I didn’t ask for my life and I loathe my existence. I want to find my infinite nothingness, where I am sure I would find peace. I want to vanish like clouds – you look up and it’s there; and then at a second glance, you can’t find it anymore. It just disappeared somewhere, somehow.” She then raised her head and continued, “You know what, last night I dreamed of myself lurking in a place I couldn’t describe. In that dream, I had no senses at all – I didn’t have that senses of sight and touch and everything that picks up sensation or whatever. That’s why I didn’t know where I was or if I had a flesh like in real life. But my dream somehow suggested that I was not alone. So, I tried and tried until I was able to talk with someone in that place. I didn’t know if I used my mouth to speak words but it was like I was communicating through mind like telepathy. Then, when I awoke, I caught myself smiling. That was the first time I smiled.”

“Maybe there is a reason to your dream.” Seatmate offered her his hanky.

“Thank you. I feel much better now.” She remembered reading a book about life having a reason and shared with him the gist. “Reason? It says everything has a reason and its sweeping application makes it questionable to me. It is like believing in that miracle drug advertised on TV that can heal all the pains and illnesses. Do you think there is a reason to the ant drowned by the waves in the glass of your chocolate drink?”

Seatmate, sitting still, set his eyes on his chocolate drink. He wondered if the ant had really been swallowed within.

The bell alarmed which signaled the end of the break. The ringing was in high pitch that the music playing on a canteen’s stereo got inaudible. When the alarm stopped, Soul Asylum was heard singing, “It seems no one can help me now. I’m in too deep, there’s no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.”

01 March 2009