The mind comes with templates. From before birth, it's paint by the numbers or fit whatever comes along into forms provided. Shuffle some and deal some out. Share. Form archetypes.
Why are dreams more real than real life, more vivid? Surreal, delightful, monstrous, beyond mere daily invention. The mind is plowing itself under to fertilize its own creations. Who owns them? Life of the waking senses is a confined yard. Senses are fences. Don't go beyond. Stay safe. Stay and share until everyone is safe. Form bonds. Don't let anyone escape. Form societies.
Maybe dreams are dangerous. Then hold to a wakeful world, maintained with proper fences all agree are real. Keep the monsters out. But without its templates, what is mind?
While awake with open eyes, mind recalls its dreams, just as dreams shrink from boundaries, thinking themselves real. Archetypes, dreams, templates, playgrounds – all claim dominion. So its down to Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum.
And Freedom?
Shall I think for you? Or for me (who is that)? Oh, this is old hat, I think, therefore . . .
Freedom is neither tweedle nor tweedle. Don't wheedle. It's all one in the same. A template for bridal falls. Water does what it may. Everyone loves a butterfly, how it flutters, does it dream of flying? So dangerous.
When I kick gravel, it's my toes running. They have escaped. There they go, down the street.
