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