Jesters of Perception

Today began as all others do of late, on the porch, cup of coffee, sitting as the sun breached the ridge to the East, obscured by pockets of mist. And I, in my aged wicker chair, felt heavy and dense and threatened by the obligations of the day.

So I wondered away into love and fascination, a blind path, a way darkened by unknowing where whatever words I could find became the torchlight, a walking meditation of sorts, guided not by silence and an absence of thought, but by language and the notion of truth;

And the sun does breach the ridge and disappears into the mist, and I wonder how could it be that any truth whatsoever could be found in the borderlands of my subconscious, yet somehow knowing that only there can the truth be found, for truth is just a communion with something universal, something godly;

We mistake it for truth when we grab something from that place and bring it into this one where our perceptions are so fantastic, like the drawings of a toddler. And it occurs to me that truth should not be surprising or precious, any more surprising or precious than sand;

So much truth is obscured by doctrine and dogma, like a tremendous wall constructed of continental upthrust; and in the other direction, truth is veiled by ignorance, and the veil is no more substantial than air, though just as steadfast as doctrine;

And so much truth is mistaken as proof, as evidence, as a weapon or threat; but those are shapes we render when it suits our needs, and once the truth has been used as such, impostors are bred who draw this form, this facsimile, this sword of conjecture and false correlation that forges its edge with each blow and hones it on the fear of the next.

Such is the way of man, the hubris of believing that the truth can be wielded as weaponry, as defense, as righteousness; when in fact it can be none of these things; truth has no form or foundation and cannot be used or shaped or reflected in any way.

On the misty plains of truth that perpetually resemble a breaking dawn, this idea that truth can be coupled with industry carries the same delight as the spectacle of a kitten playing with a scrap of cloth as perfectly as if it were pray,

as the notion that god exists in the form of man;

as the idea that we gangly humans, creatures of reason, have a higher purpose than mites living in the feathers of a raven’s crown;

that perception and truth are conjoined twins, inseparable, but by death;

This folly is regarded from afar like a clown show of body builders and politicians; despots and generals; missionaries and capitalists…all jesters of perception dancing, flexing, contorting, to the delight of that gentle breeze that swirls the mist in that place just beyond our knowing.