The Search for Imaginary Magic

Sometimes the eyes are not the windows to the soul.  Sometimes they are only the portal were life and our version of reality pours through unfiltered. Until our mind converts it by use of perception into a version of reality that scares a great many people.  Sometimes your eyes are radio receivers, devices that were created for one purpose, and inevitably become the vehicle for that which they were not designed.

There are some, in whose shoes that touch the earth, conventional wisdom tells us is firm and consistent, but in truth to those chosen few it’s merely an affirmation that perception is the only thing that makes anything real.  A concept that men of great letters, have never and will never come closer to the truth, the real truth.

These people, who burn brighter than any dying star, who see shapes and music, colors and sound, a motion instead of words, their trust is a brilliant unrelenting form of truth.

And their filters do not work.  Eroded by the constant stream of glorious input and knowledge, the barriers and stops lay pieces.  And this unabated flow can be intoxicating.  To have all the knowledge that will ever exist or has ever existed flow into your mind and create images and ideas that no one has heard or seen before.  Voluminous tornadoes of intelligent thought, concepts that would give the lay person a bout of the screaming Mimi’s, but to you it’s like watching the pageantry of god’s creation in your head, constantly.

It can be wonderful.  And because of its unending nature they can keep you enthralled for hours.  A view that only you can see, with all the true reality that exist outside of your head.  But for only uniquely yours.  Our imaginations are great things.  They allow us to tap into our non-blasphemous grasp at creation on a grander scale than what our hands can do.  On a scale that our words, and our voices, could never manufacture.  One can create an entire world, populated by creatures, and forms of human life yet to evolve. Verdant fields filled with the unique vegetation that yield both food, entertainment, and depending on the particular mind and hand, great danger.  With this mind you could create universes.  Galaxies and civilizations that will do exactly what you design them to do.  That’s glorious!

There can be no light without the dark.  There’s no consideration for light existing on its own, without end, a perpetual blaze, in tones a white hot yellow red and blue.  And conversely, and all of its deep indigo blackness, immortal darkness is equally inconceivable.  But it’s the dark that we find most are to deal with because it’s the dark that causes the most problems.  No one thinks about the dark until the light gently and regrettably passes away, after a period of elation and wonder at the things our minds can do.  When the darkness seeps, ebbs and flows over its only then when we realize that the duality of our lives as seekers of imaginary magic that it’s perceived as a double edged sword.

The doubt we all feel at the moment when the darkness, which is actually the downside of being who we are and how we are, is that the light will never shine again.  That’s a white wall for a ride itself from loss and retreat to a place that out of logical we should know where it is.  The light belongs to us; it is ours to hold, to manipulate, and the bend to our will.  It only stands to reason that it being of our possession that it would be ours to find so is never lost.

But like most things in the possession of human beings this light does not belong to us.  We merely tap into it, coexist with it, are in partnership with it, but it does not belong to us.  It is the same partnership we share with the darkness, or the downside.  It does not belong to us either.  We’re not slaves to it.  Yet it will descend upon us, with razor sharp quickness and an indeterminate duration.  I know of no other impediments, or cautions to this type of existence.  And on the whole by perceived that their lives are and are richer for it and for it being, simply being.

But the rapture, the unmitigated less of being an individual who sees magic and the following a snowflake, or sees the divine source tree of air as it pushes against objects with little substance enough to hold themselves against the wind.  There not words enough to describe the happiness of being able to perceive a world in terms that excite and electrify your thoughts.  And knowing that those thoughts, if given purpose and a vehicle or medium in which to exist into our waking world, I don’t have the words for that.  I am not as intelligent as I would love to be, to be able to describe that feeling you get when you draw a picture.  When you take one basic element, and apply it to another, and create an image that captures someone’s attention.  Paints itself on their consciousness, and lives with them for the rest of their lives.

Or to create a story, of peoples and things.  Of locales and experiences, which our readers allowing his mind to be open, and infected with the idea of that you’ve created and that idea generates more thought.  That magneto of an imaginary experience has now become the engine that drives ours and others imaginations.  And that tiny component becomes their possession.  They own that.  This something given freely, from a creator of the need to create, as a guest openly accepted and forever held.  Who would not want a life like that?

Who would not choose to be a creator?  Who would not choose to marvel and the myth of legend and think of in real but only recently faded memory.  Who would not want to know that centaurs, and griffin’s actually trod the earth, enter natural selection and simply lay extinct in the earth.

Indeed with any beloved thing, there’s always going to be a light and a dark.  There’s always going to be the up and down, the converse and the contrary.  And in most cases you have little sway over the outcome of which will be the most prominent.  Your will over this force of nature that lies within you has no other master than itself.  Yet it does not rule you, nor should it be allowed to.  Yet in some ways it does.  It wraps its tendrils around your pleasure centers and never let’s go.  This tight loving embrace it has over your brain is one that it is not willing to relinquish because it knows what you want from it.  It knows that you want to create hopefully with the creation enlighten those around you.

Yet at the time of creation others are not in the equation.  Each word, each daub of paint, each stretch of your fingers and your arms as a part of the symphony of creation.  It’s this incredible alchemic dance that your brain does with your extremities and from this dance is the birthing an astral entity.

This entity, untethered by anything terrestrial, is free to enter any open soul, any alert and functioning brain, and live there, or not.  There are some who are not receptive to anything new.  And reject this entity.  Not being the lesser for the rejection, only separate from those who are.  And there’s no shame and that, no recriminations, no shunning.  Merely a time of waiting until an entity that they find pleasing and acceptable comes to them.

So be pleased to be as seeker of imaginary magic.  Lives most do not choose, but in time and with care choose not to live without.