An article on Hallucinations and the Human Subconscious states, “People who experience an event while dreaming will refer to it as a dream, because it occurred in their subconscious. Whereas, if the event had occurred while they were awake-in their conscious mind-frame, then it would be considered as an actual experience.” But what if the reverse where true? What if reality is malleable, and we are only “conscious” of the power of our minds while asleep?
I’m not talking about dream walking – I explored that idea to my satisfaction in my series The Stream. I’m talking about all those people whose creative minds we have taught to believe only that which others see. I am referring to the small, gifted populous who can see what their subconscious minds tell them might exist. What if they aren’t crazy? Maybe they have simply evolved past the stage the rest of us have reached.
Maybe it is we who are mentally disrupted.
Here, for example you see a photograph of a lovely red car. It is a beauty, this classic Mercedes, a delight of German engineering. She sits, silent, wondering if anyone will notice her. She is strong, gifted, with a race car’s heart that you cannot see. But to us, she is but a red car, on an empty, cobbled street.
What’s that you say? She’s not red? Well of course she is red. She was born red, her momma is red … she’s red. The fact that you choose to see her as a purple car does not change who she is. Her color is your delusion; however, since other “rational” beings see her as purple, each declaring she reflects the violet spectrum of light, almost the antithesis of the red spectrum her heart tells her she reflects, the declaration is made. She is a purple, clunky car of little import.
Her seeing red in her side-view mirror is but another of her hallucinations.
But I saw her, when first I approached. She whispered to me, “I am red, the color of the heart. As I sit, too close to the curb for comfort, I can feel the hands of the non-believers tearing at me. They grab, and stroke, and pull, and tear. I fear to sleep, fear to dream. I wish to run, to race, to flee, but they tell me I cannot. I am but an ugly, purple beast.” A tear of colored oil leaked into the street. “I am mad, I fear.”
“They see only what their eyes tell them,” I replied. “You see what your subconscious dreams. You are gifted, and cursed, in that your subconscious does not await the silent stirrings of night. Hallucinations, my once-German love? No. You have an artist’s mind, and truth for we artists is what we dare to believe.” I touched her cool bonnet and smiled. “Reality is not what exists, but what we are willing to create.”
Her horn blared, lights flashed, and she dared to believe what her dreams told her. And, with camera in hand, I shot her once again, this time, for all the world to see. “We writers, my love,” I told her, “see dreams while still awake. The fortunate of us write them down, and make others believe. The truly gifted, however, have their dreams speak to them, but it is no more madness than the light from the evening sun.”
I bristle when I learn of creative souls who are put in boxes meant for the rest of us. Neither reality nor unreality is truth; they are merely ideas to ponder. Believe what your heart says can be true, and let the unbelievers wallow in their blind reality. Neither hallucinations nor imagination are delusions, any more than is reality. They are simply means for the mind to understand the world that is, or could be. Personally, I believe some artists who have been labeled “mad” suffered from little more than a form of visual synesthesia — their creative minds begin a thought, and their sympathetic brains interpret it visually. How is that different than when I watch a movie, and hear different (better) dialogue, or know the words sung by a guitar?
The only difference is whether I believe myself mad for having the gift. For years, I suppressed it, to stifle the voices. Now, I encourage them to shout. I, however, am “sane” because they only come out to play when invited.
“Creativity is more important than knowledge.” — Albert Einstein
“A car is whatever color it choses it to be.” — Me