The Playdoh Republic

The Sun and The Sea

Gazing at the firefly on the wall in this hive constructed of wax in this our Ether Lamp, I see a moth. His goal is oblivion through a flaming gateway, the dream of moths. And what is a philosopher's dream? This dream I recount is a flapping wing, for a moth I be. Dancing in the sunlight, I know nothing and yet everything to learn in the gateways of the looking glass. I do not see Medusa and she not me. I am free to dance, my dreams unturned. But what is cast in the flapping of my wings? Shadows to those below, other dancers create more. Each moth seeks nothing, a non-sense, but to those below I can only say "Don't search for it in our shadows and proclaim that we made sense."

And so saying, my attention shifts to this page. As I make shapes in the sand fresh from swimming in the sea, dreams and the bed become impermanent both. The gateway exists in all things if you can so see it, yet I cannot hold the water for it slips through my fingers and I accept that it is so. The sand slips through my fingers too, so why hold onto that? I can reach no conclusions, for sandcastles they be and return to the sea. Scratched words in the sand or a wave from the sea, which to be, they're both me.

Plato was afeared of changes wrought by the sea, for he thought that the end of his sandcastle was the end of an ideal form. Yet is it possible to ward off change with sandbanks of legislation? His dream is a Playdoh Republic; the ideals exist yet their forms are changed. Dreams mould the Republic and they can never manifest in their entirety for we are both sides of the looking glass. Are we the little hands that emerge from waves to shift the sand? Dreams re-arrange old forms for none of our creations manifest the sea of consciousness in one wave, for the sea is all of them in concert. Our wave plays games in the sand for we do not fear and why do we not fear?