¡Claro!

If I were to casually take a lucid daydream as an imaginary bubble that enveloped me like a cocoon, but it did nothing to stop me from doing as I pleased or told me "No!". That is, if it spoke to my curiosity at all, feigned anger or no, or regarded me as a person in it's detached, incremental endeavors, unless I asked it the right question at the right time in some arbitrary "right way."

I didn't and still don't understand the whole gambit unto this day. How it was usually a question I had addressed in frustration to the wide open spaces allone with myself, and did not entertain the remotest notion of expecting any response at all. As if I were innocent and free without threat of bondage to curse God without a care. Some unthoughtful and terse question created more for making a rude statement than for soliciting a wise answer.

This bubble of is-ness doesn't seem to care whether I've been naughty or nice or have pretentiously feigned Being in any certain method at all. It's just that sometimes it is there for me to perceive in some odd manner, form or fashion, and I know in real time that it's there.

That frightening facticity alone makes me nervous. Maybe it ain't here to judge me, who knows, it's not me or of me, I didn't create it (I'm not THAT good), but I've sorta belligerently created my own fate by my subjective choice of the rules of conscience I adopted, okay, sorta in ignorance. So, I'm guilty as sin for being wot I am is. There is no one else to blame. I can't change my damned spots... or... can I?

Carelessly conjuring inside the bubble is a bit like taking my life into my own hands, I KNOW! I could easily stand accused of appearing to bite the hand that cocoonishly entombs me, or else of seeming too arrogant for stepping forth to elicit the riddles of the Sphinx with aplomb and disdain.

Yet, once more foolish for overreaching without foreknowledge of the fatal price of answering it's riddles incorrectly. If I get lucky, and I ain't dead yet, then my bubble might get me out of trouble. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble. I'm always out on a limb. I got no options. It seems demanded of me to-shit-or-get-off-the-pot. Woefully, once I'm committed by askance (I just HAD to ask... cocky fool!), I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't.

"I'm innocent, I tell ya'. I wuz jest jiving, man. Gimme a brake? No?... NO? ... REALLY? (Sigh... ) Man! Whatta drag."

"Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, down by the bayou..."

It's irrefutable, pernicious denial, though not necessarily on my behalf, but to respond to some unseen rule of law beyond my unkempt kith and ken. I'm thinking of a spiritual bubble like this as sheer potential, and while I pretend I know it's there, I also know that sometime I ain't got the right mojo to make it go to work fo' me any time I like... and be mah bitch... of course, like bubble bitches oughta. Right? I get all worked up to counter, and sometime, it's not there. Gone, but not forgotten.

I'm haphazardly suggesting this bubble as potential alone forms the source of the dreaded species flaw, that of not being able to perceive one's own possibilities in real time, and yet that unpenetrable shining head can easily discern the possibles of others, "Run, Forrest... RUN!

I'm just playing this awakened consciousness/lucid daydreaming bit as 'life is a riddle'. Foolishly pretending that if I ask I will receive, but dubiously acting like I gotta ask the right question or the resolution of my prayers go unrequited, is truly disgusting to me, even though I'm surrounded by the bounty of the kingdom, and its there for the taking. This is a shameless, no-stone-left-unturned quest with impossible odds. I kinda wish I'd rather be fishing?

Percival purportedly missed out simply because he didn't ask the Grail King where it hurt. Boom! Gone away running, not to, but from, a life of computerized joy. The life I am living is not even my own, but the dream of a life by a golden-haired boy.

I'm proposing that what I wrote above, is what a lucid dream at night would be like if I somehow became aware that I was asleep and dreaming, and used that conscious awareness to shape the events and behavior of that dream into a ditty about "computerized joy".

What's the difference between becoming consciously aware and shaping the reality you find yourself engulfed by upon awaking, from what never was or will be, by the use of woids... 7/24... night and day? "In the bejinning..." blah, blah, blah. How else can a homo sapiens individual create their own reality to match the herd and the environment changed by it's presence.

How can that be done without adopting mutual rules of conscience? Herd behavior seems typified by their unquestioning, perhaps incoherent response to the unified code of some ancient and presently unknowable singularity?

Humans do that and more. The "more" that they do is called their me-mores (Stashed in they aura, and blindingly bright when rectified. ¡Claro!). Their more-than-you-can-see-me. It's the unperceived part both you and me can't see without crude insight. Nor they themselves see because of their own purified brightness. From the inside all is nothing. Civilization is what is re-me-d from the kingdom. It's what happens when the hero returns and manifest their stolen and smuggled gifts before God and man. Life is nothing more than man's memoirs. What a damned, niggardly shame. Even more so if I can work it.