made of this

What happens if you leave the brain alone, if you say, darling, take a little me-time, some R & R just for yourself ?

It writes fiction. It creates images.

Dreams are the mind’s natural form of healing, the essence of the sleep that knits up the ravel’d sleave of care, Nature’s soft nurse.

The sleeve of consciousness knits itself with stories, purls by painting inner pictures. This is the essential work of healing – story-making. We make montages and icons, avatars and personifications, manifestations and realizations, phantasms and chimeras, perceptions and conceptions. All are our brainchildren and all are striving to tell the truth, to softly, or not so softly, tell us the truth.

The hieroglyphs diagram something we need to know, or just patiently, efficiently digest the nonsense of what happens to us, until we can, by closing our eyes, by stopping all senses, make sense of it. By making stories. For the senses to make sense, there must be narrative. We do this while awake and then in sleep we rearrange.

The images themselves are multi-dimensional. They mean many things at once, and this is also the natural human state – to live in many dimensions at once. To experience something and also feel the meaning of it, to experience something and also see it as a multivalent pictogram. Symbols are a natural form of consciousness. We do this every single night.

and then, in dreaming, 
The clouds methought would open and show riches 
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d 
I cried to dream again.

The Tempest, Wm Shakespeare

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