Insane Universe
The crazy is what keeps it together. Otherwise it might be unbearable.
By Occam’s Razor, everything you consider real is imagined. Any other explanation introduces extras. Even a simulation feeding your mind would be more than what’s necessary to explain your reality.
The bare minimum to produce what you and everyone you know experiences is simply a fallible mind, which you think is yours, dreaming the universe, which you believe is real.
What explanation could be simpler than that?
But natural laws
There are natural laws in our universe, rules. They are crafted in the dream.
Our natural laws are perfect and always mysterious at the edges. The edges go on forever.
They are unblemished because imperfections and gaps are not the stuff of dreams.
Dreams are perfect within themselves. All laws are faultless as they should be in our dreams.
Only an outside observer would know that today’s observation is an invention that did not exist yesterday and will not exist tomorrow. And we are not outside our dream.
Rules bend to the story of the dream, they exist and are perfect for their moment in the dream.
We only see the fluidity in dreams when we step outside them. When we wake our solid cages fade like vapors as we race to trace them. We cannot step outside this one.
Why would we dream of pain and suffering?
How many dramas and dark stories can you find as novels and on popular streaming services?
Twists, surprises, and shocks.
We recoil and look away. Then have another pained peek.
We call this art entertainment.
We glimpse the why of our reality when we study the art created in the dream. It’s from the same mind.
Thoughts of a bishop
Interesting chap George Berkeley. His thoughts rowed down streams that Rene Descartes once splashed in. Both wondered how anyone could ever be sure that anything was more than a thought.
Descartes keenly realized the only thing that can be known is that we think. That is real. Everything else is suspect.
The stream
Perhaps self awareness in perpetual isolation was a horror for that first consciousness which became us and all we know.
Is this moment now a dream to escape the perpetual meaningless isolation? Is it a shared dream? Is it all a hallucination?
Nobody really knows. Nobody will ever know. It’s impossible to know.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Glimpses in a mist we cannot hold onto are clues.
No firm ground for anchor.
Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily.
Perhaps you know how that song ends.
