THE DREAM OF BEING: aphorisms, ideograms, and aislings
by Jack Haas
sample poems and aphorisms
the dream of being
It would be despairing if you existed only as a character in another personís dream, for the other would certainly want to be awakened. And yet to awaken them would amount to your own dissolution. So you would not awaken them; you would rather exist in a dream than not exist at all. But what if this dream is a nightmare of your self? That is: would you keep them sleeping, if the dreamer dreaming your being ...was you?
We dreamt that we were dreaming, and then that we were dreaming that we were dreaming, and then that the dreamer was not the dreamer but the dream. In the end there was no dreamer, only the dream of a dreamer; a dream dreaming a dreamer. We do not dream, we are dreamt. The Dream dreams the dreamer, then the dreamer dreams, then the dream of the dreamed dreamer dreams, and so on. The dream dreams the dreamer, the dreamer does not dream the dream.
Dream on dreamer.
You are but a dream-catcher.
And you are caught.
A long time ago a person was chased to a wall and then slain before they could dig through it. And then came many others, similarly chased, similarly doomed to be slaughtered while digging at the same spot. Until after a great duration the mass of indistinguishable corpses created a tremendous labyrinth hindering both hunter and prey.
Now, perhaps you are within this interminable structure. Perhaps even leaning against that very wall- a barrier attacked with bleeding fingers and panicked charges. You can sense the danger, the confinement, and the hidden anguish forming the foundation of it all. Yet you do not consider digging. Not until they are upon you.
In the infinite expanse of unknown darkness, there is indeed a light, but it is unfortunately only a residual candle-end; a little flame fluttering on a charred, lifeless wick which floats sputtering in a vanishing drop of impure wax. And this you must solicitously carry about in the darkness, searching for the fatty remains of other spent candles that might feed your dying flame. Yes, there is a light, but it is barely discernable even though it be in your grasp. Oh, it is so dim and precarious, it hardly sheds enough light for the duties you must ceaselessly perform, in order to keep lighted the light.
It is as if someone left their treasure for you to guard while they had to go away. But now you canít remember when they said they would be back. You want to leave, to attend to other things, but then whoíll guard the goods? You must stay, or convince another to take on your duty until the owner returns, whenever that is, whoever it is. In fact you have never even met the owner, but were simply handed the task by another who was handed it by another, and so on, back so far that no one can remember whose treasure it is. No one even knows what it actually is. Still you must stay until another will take your place. That is all you are sure of. You must stay.
Itís like holding a lottery ticket which you didnít buy and which you donít know what the prize is, nor when it will be announced. Nor even where. You know simply that the only thing worse than having a losing ticket, is losing a winning one.
There is a withered and weary, crotchety old man who you never have met nor heard of, yet who remains faithfully outside of your door, for reasons you cannot fathom, every evening, frantically battling lunatics and beasts away until, come morning, the foes are all diminished and he lies wrecked and dying.
This happens every night, while you obliviously slumber, comfortable and safe, knowing nothing of beasts nor madmen intent upon your demise, nor of a frightened and lonely, battle‑weary knight who hopes for nothing more than the day when there will be no more marauders, and the fighting will finally end, so that he can die, because you can live.
There are bees in every hive with inherent imperfections: they cannot navigate from the directions given by others. They fly off everywhere. They are always getting lost. They never gather much pollen. Yet, by an incongruous twist of fate, these bees can still dance directions to others. And so they occasionally return from their misguided wanderings with delirious gospel of what they have found. Good god, what they have found! It is the lost bee who finds new flowers.
THE DREAM OF BEING: aphorisms, ideograms, and aislings
by Jack Haas, ISBN 0973100753
$14.00 paperback, $6.00 ebook
An inspiring collection of Jack Haasí metaphysical poetry, transformational drawings, and esoteric insights. This book metaphorically conveys the soulís journey through life, and subtly expresses the dream nature of all reality. Jack Haas takes the reader on a symbolic journey through the stages of inner evolution, interweaving mystical poems with symbolic line-drawings and potent philosophical aphorisms, in a profound blend of poetry, art, and metaphysics. This is a poetic dance into the substratum of our sublime selves, and into the twilight realm of the dream of being.
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