Sometimes it takes my fancy that all of this, this Life, is just a shadow of a dream. It would help explain the absurdness of War - the idiosyncratic hype of a people gone mad. War is the ultimate illusion of control. We cannot control the wars inside ourselves. Cannot even control what our next thought will be. So why thrust our psychosis on others?
It is said that we cannot stand the thought of someone different from us. But i think it is rather that we are afraid to find that the person we hate, is the person inside ourselves. There are no emotions that have been felt by one that haven’t been felt by all. Yes – we share the same emotions as the murdered, the rapist, the liar, the cheat. The only thing that separates us is that we have not acted upon our emotions outside the acceptance of society. Which makes me wonder, why is murder and rape unacceptable, but war is not?
But there is murder in war. There is rape. What kind of dream are we caught in? The Battleground is a Dali painting. Bullets rip through flesh. What was once whole is torn asunder. That was a perfectly good human body! Now look what you’ve done to it! Humpty-Dumpty. By circumstance friends are made, by grenade friends parted. This can’t be real. I don’t want it to be real.
If this were my dream, just mine, every time someone would say something really nasty about another, i would hand them a mirror. Look in it. Repeat what you just said to the mirror. How do you feel – with all that hate staring back at you? How can you kill your brother who is you?
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