Eternal Unreality

This waking life is as much a dream as a dream is, not because we’ve decided it is unreal, but because there is no separation within it. Without separation, there can be no reality as we conceive it. Paradoxically, the real remains only ever an aspiration, an idea, based on the ideal of a life of two halves. Although terrifying, the reason the nightmare can never consume us completely is because there is no distance between the dreamer and the dream, there is no interval, no gap, no intervening layer. This is why, in a way, the nightmare is not real. It is the gap that would be truly terrifying, but there is none, just as there is none in waking life. This life is not real because there is no possibility of stepping outside this to observe, to weigh up, to reposition, to shuffle forward or back or sideways for an alternative present. And as there is no interval, no difference, there is also no danger….no danger, because this has not happened to a separate part, this has not happened because there is no space from which to say it really has. In the end, it is the fact that there is no gap that means we have always been safe, spread fifty-fifty across an imaginary divide, at least half of us forever within the camp of the other, the hunter, the half that lives on in eternal unreality.



There was something about the recycle bins,

Down on the left-hand side of the garden path,

Something about the way the black one,

The one for glass, now empty, sat diagonally in the green one below.

There was something, too, about the empty Tampax box,

The one on the right-hand of the sink she’d left there

In the dreary bathroom, at an angle,

Waiting for me to pick up and fold.

There was something about almost everything that morning.

Not that it was for him to know what that something was.

No, his was only to register without knowing why,

A point of digression from the dogmatic, uncommunicative present,

An irregular eddy across the flatness that seemed to offer a whisper of hope

And a brief respite from the loneliness of living.