In the day, we see by a singular light which is all-pervasive. We sense by light and sound. We effectively, ‘follow the light’. And the light bestows not merely illumination… but, by reference… identity. The character of the illumination… inflects shape and color, such that the two require each other, and thus…

There is a strange time of in-between which we call twilight. It seems to me to mean ‘twin lighted’. We are between worlds.

Then comes the night. The actual descent into the underworld which we mistakenly suppose is merely the setting of the sun, the sun being merely a source of illumination and warmth. It’s these merely words that get us confused. Because they have nothing to tell us but the broadest sort of lie.

At night, we become co-extant with the entire undifferentiated field of darkness, which we might understand in all sorts of astonishing ways. Unbeing. Isn’t-yet-ness. The field of pure potential. And the -sign- of this, is the disappearance of the sun, that singular luminal authority who -decrees— identity to us with its fertile emanations.

But in the darkness, there is a stranger way. We feel. Blind, we sense with the old senses, invisible rivers that emerge from and return to us, encompassing the world… tasting blindly, and replying from afar. They follow the darkness, which is everywhere… everywhen… they follow ‘the between’ of that day, into fields of possibilities beyond all comprehensible imagining.

The single identity of the day dissolves into sleep, becoming many possible identities in dreaming… demonstrating in direct experience what is actually happening to us… and yet we pretend that when we are awake it is real, and when we are dreaming, it is ‘merely our imagination’.

I always think it is hilarious when people defame the imagination. Don’t they realize it is their imaginations with which they pursue such a fool’s errand? Well, what is it then, with which you read and understand these words… or any idea whatsoever?

Would that be ‘merely your imagination’?