Entertainment

Intricate Amusement

Life is an intricate puzzle for the amusement of Emptiness

Probably not the most asked question on this planet (which would be “Why me?” or alternatively, its near relative: “Why not me?”) but still up there toward the top would be, I guess: “What are we doing here?”, or its cousin: “What’s the meaning/purpose of life?”

Yes, just like the rest of us I have pondered this, upturning a lot of rocks and old rotten planks (revealing echo systems of little critters beneath) but no satisfactory answers. Then I return to the one answer I’ve carried around for a while, and mused some more, and then mused some more, and then, as all too often these days, this answer strikes me as all too obvious — hidden, as it were, in plain sight: We’re obviously here for someone’s amusement.

Whose, though, or what’s?

And then I think I know whose or what’s, so let me share:

We can’t see this audience, even though they have front-row seats, for they only partly share our dimensional universe, and that part, the part that crosses the border between us and them and spills into our time and space, incidentally, is their perception: surrounding us globally at a few thousand miles toward the rest of existence, all eyes, ears, noses, tongues, fingers, minds trained on this one little planet of ours — the universal spectacle — yes, we have quite a reputation around these parts; freakshow Earth.

They have paid good money for this, this audience, packed a thousand rows deep, raptly attending to us from the balconies, and we don’t even know that we’re the main course.

Interesting thing is that they can tap into our emotions, our perceptions, our feelings (pleasure as well as pain, though pain mostly). Not in a way that would disturb them or entrap or ensnare them, as our perceptions and feelings disturb and entrap and ensnare us, just enough to supply the thrill of vicarious suffering — for make no mistake: they’re all here, they’ve all paid good money for this, the suffering.

For them, it’s somewhat like donning a headset on an airplane, listening to the broadcast, or the soundtrack to the film showing right now, only these cosmic headphones convey all five senses and more besides (including the Buddhist sixth sense, i.e., the mind).

Truly amazing technology, these cosmic headphones, for you can adjust and focus them so precisely that all you perceive is the mind of a single ant (or even the mind of a single cell in one of that ant’s legs), or you can widen the spectrum to such an extent that you perceive the mental anguish of a country, of a race, of a species, of a planet. Truly, there something here for everyone, and many in the audience are return (and re-return, and re-re-return and so on customers).

And we, suffering humans, have no idea that we’re the main course.

Ignorance is bliss, supposedly; I beg to differ.

Yes, I’m sure that there is a good, strong supply of sensation and other feelings in, say, an elephant, but eventually the thrill of that wears thin and you (as spectator) crave something more exquisite, and here is where the humans enter stage right: no creature can hurt more (nor sense stronger pleasure, to be sure); no creature can struggle more to free itself of the fetters that bind (and thus entertain).

No creature is more aware; some even aware that something’s wrong here — but very, very few are aware that we’re the headliners.

An absolute favorite show for these drooling deities (our audience) is those few humans human who almost make it out, almost severs his or her chains, almost gains his or her freedom. It is such a thrill to them, this one life only a hair’s breadth away from prying the door open and rushing out into free space again. But the bonds are devious and strong, the final turn of the key may very well vanish both lock and door and leave the poor suffering soul, so close, so, so close, crushed, devastated, re-captured as it were.

Once, no twice, due to programming glitches (so the Circus PR story goes), the human made it all the way out, managed the final turn of the key and managed to push the door open, managed to step out and explode into freedom.

Thousands wanted their money back.

Thousands did not get their money back — no guarantees, read the fine print at the bottom of page forty-six of the purchase agreement.

Also, so the Circus PR department reported (or lied) these two escapees were soon captured and tried and found guilty of attempting to destroy Circus business, and are now serving long, long jail sentences somewhere around the far side of Cosmos. My money is on the escapees, I don’t think they’re foolish enough to fall for Circus entrapment twice.

So, who’s the Circus. They were originally known as “The Landlord” — they, I guess still, own the Earth and populated it with roaming souls from all over: beautiful seas, lovely mountains, exquisite gravity, a million body-types to choose from, both short- and long-term leases. Watch this video, read this brochure, a tour perhaps?

Of course, this is the tour the never ends. Most of our population are still “on tour” and no end in sight. And equally of course, they no longer have a clue, no memory at all, about where they are, how they got here, or why.

Clever Landlord.

Clever Circus.

The true highlight of human suffering, staged and promoted with some regularity, is war. Counted as a “special event” the Circus charges twice, sometimes even three times the regular fare, which the addicted deities are more than happy to part with.

And so the legendary staging of Hitler’s war went off without a hitch. Lots and lots of death, and the near extermination of an entire race. Beautiful. Exquisite suffering. Well worth the money.

Another special event is the bloodthirsty tyrant, which has featured such still talked about hits like Stalin, Chairman Mao, and their equally vicious understudy Pol Pot.

Fifteen million Russian peasants starved to death! Amazing. Bravo, bravo.

Sixty million Chinese killed, starved, burned or frozen. Brilliant, beautiful.

Albeit only seven million, but still thoroughly dead Cambodians. Bravo again. Well worth the price of admission.

Word has it that the Circus is already promoting the next cataclysmic show, although they’re unusually tightlipped about it. Just a rumor at this point. Not sure I want to stick around to verify.

But then again, how the hell do I get off of this tub. I seem to have a key but I can find neither door nor lock.

I wonder how many in the audience have trained their perception sets on me and are having just a wonderful time at my expense.

P.S. If you like what you’ve read here and would like to contribute to the creative motion, as it were, you can do so via PayPal: here.

© Wolfstuff