Transfiguration

There is a world beneath the one we see; light waves out of the range of human vision, radio waves beyond the realm of human hearing. This internet world we mainline like heroin is just a reflection of the ones that exist beyond our knowing.

Madness is just the ability to hear the voices, and see the lights that others cannot. Somewhere deep within the human experience, we acknowledge that we cannot see and know all that moves in the shadows around us. This is why seers and oracles exist in all cultures.

Dwelling too long on these thoughts, and listening too close to the echoes of silent voices, is inviting madness. Sooner or later, you will reach a point at which the unseen and unheard world becomes as real as the one around you. Then all perspective begins to bend, and your soul slips beneath the waves of dream.

Only those who have trained themselves to hold their breath like pearl divers, can return to the world of space and light, and recreate their visions for the rest of us to see. They are called artists, and we venerate them. Especially the ones that push too far, and descend too deep into the briny depths, and one day, do not return. Martyrs to the human experience, souls that disappear, tangled in the ultraviolet tentacles of dream.

We grip the railing, scanning the waves, waiting for them to surface. Bubbles rise through the aquamarine, and we shake with fear. We can only imagine what dark monsters lurk inside the depths, as we wait in silence for their return.

Somewhere deep below us, eyes look skyward to the light, and feet kick desperately, hands reaching toward heaven, as they swim for the surface.