I am Half Sick of Shadows
[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
the Lady of Shalott
(from “The Lady of Shalott” by Tennyson)
“When a human being is asleep, which is to say, in a trance, he continues to create subconsciously, because creation doesn't stop. The question is: what is the purpose of the trance?
It's a state of mind aimed at excluding alternative realities. So a person can be walking around and carrying on with his life, and yet he is in that trance.
He sees reality around him and it rarely occurs to him that everything could be different. More importantly, it never occurs to him that he could create something quite different. Nor does he imagine that, if he expressed, in some way, what he really thinks, he would then be inventing another reality, which is, in fact, powerful.
Nor does it occur to him that what he could invent has no boundaries.
So I'm talking about a "reality trance." It is ruled by What Is. It seeks to see and imitate What Already Is. In this trance, a person has absolutely no idea about the difference between what he thinks and what he REALLY thinks. He would only find out the difference by starting to express what he thinks---that process would lead him out, eventually, into new territory. If he stayed with it long enough, if he played out the string on his conventional thoughts, he would find himself in a new land.”
(Introduction to “Consciousness and a World Asleep” – essay by Jon Rappoport)
While it is an easy thing to talk about for someone who hasn’t tried, is not trying, likely will never try, to jump out of consensus reality, it is not an easy thing to do. In fact, it is certainly the most difficult thing anyone can ever, will ever, attempt.
To begin with, consensus reality, also called the Matrix, once better known as the Status Quo or the System, is all around us. Our very bodies, our brains, our DNA, our genes, and let’s not forget, our so-called “souls,” are programmed chock-full of stuff pushing us to respond to that reality or live in constant fear. The Bible, God in a burning bush, Jesus on a cross, George Washington never telling a lie, Hitler, Ho Chi Minh, Gandhi and Che Guevarra, Socrates, Plato, Shakespeare, the Media, TV, the Internet and the endless array and disarray of commercials, infomercials and ads: these, and thousands more are the foundational historical, political, social and literary truths we rely on for our daily bread, our daily sense of reality. Whatever else not contained in the great bibles taught in schools and every other kind of institution is, well, fiction. Dreams. Make belief. Delusional stuff. It’s where young children play and artists presumably draw their inspiration from, but it isn’t real.
It couldn’t be real because if it was, that would mean everything I’ve ever been taught from outside of myself is the illusion, and the only reality worth working with was what I chose to believe all along. And wouldn’t that lead to total chaos? Anarchy? Damnation?
The problem with “believing in” is that it is a denial of personal consciousness. It’s the social placebo that makes everything run, so we insist on claiming and believing. Without it, presumably, the machine would stop.
The machine, some will ask? What’s that?
The machine is the Matrix, man’s consensus reality. People caught up in it are just pieces of the machinery of the System. From inception they, and their society, are pushed into the system, and pushed harder with each passing year. Sadly, as depicted in the Matrix movie, most people are blissfully unaware of this state, and even when they become aware, most choose to remain in it. It has an appearance of solidity, backed by perceived reality. It gives the illusion of being safe from “enemies,” is predictable, comfortable and a perfect environment for the socially gregarious Earthians. It also allows the vast majority to eschew personal responsibility for the polis, leaving that to “representatives” or “experts” who are so obviously willing and able to perform those onerous duties.
Then something strange happens: an individual begins to suspect that consensus reality is nothing but shifting shadows made up of toxic beliefs. An individual begins to observe the results of mass belief in whatever concepts put forth, pushed and enforced, by the status quo. An individual begins to lose faith in these concepts and in those who impose and enforce them. An individual begins to feel sick deep within himself, as if he were suddenly floating in zero gravity and being bounced about with nothing real to hang on to.
What has this individual seen that others cannot see? The fact that none of the promoted and enforced concepts actually work. Even the most lofty of them found in the most sacred of society’s books have no power to make things on earth any better. And he has seen that most things on earth desperately need to be made better. He has asked himself: where is the God I believe in when the world is in such dire straights and people suffer so much that I can’t stand the pain it gives me? Where are all those powerful institutions set up to stop and prevent this pain, such as the United Nations and world-renowned social and charitable organizations? Why isn’t all that money and power and “organized” groups of individuals doing any good at all?
It takes time, a long, long time, of persistent questioning but finally this individual concludes that all that effort succeeds only in creating more shadows and pushing these from one place to another while none of the old shadows are ever dissipated.
This individual then sees no choice but to violate the terms of the Matrix curse he has been put under to never look at the real world but through a mirror, and to set out, like the Lady of Shalott, towards Camelot, even knowing that doing so probably means he will most certainly die. Knowing that physical death is not the only type of “death” dealt by the Matrix.
(and for those who may be curious about the Lady, here’s an excerpt from the famous Alfred Lord Tennyson poem)
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true ,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Love ya!
Jane
I remember fondly the first time I read this poem. The pain and anguish of a life lived only as a spectator. Then the stark reality of getting and losing it all in one small moment in time.
Thank you for sharing your insights. I feel you may have also revealed your own inner pain without knowing it.
Stay well and keep writing
Eddy