Heqiq

What is a dream?

To be alive is to be conscious.

Yet,

every night we relinquish our conscious minds to return to the unconscious. 

But within that unconsciousness, we can still find something that is conscious. 

Albeit, a different kind of consciousness. 

One in which we are typically the conscious observer,

 or a participant, 

but with no conscious control. 

An oftentimes fully immersive production and performance

of extraordinary creativity,

perhaps infinite potential,

beyond what we could have thought up for ourselves,

not only in scope,

but also in depth.

For these dreams mean so much more than their superficial details suggest.

We know this,

on some level.

 We feel that they resonate with meaning.

But this is an intuition and a truth we so often dismiss.

And that’s understandable,

given how little our culture values these visions,

and given, therefore, how little hope it seems we have 

to even begin understanding them,

as if we need others to provide us the tools,

as if we have not been given everything we need to see for ourselves.

Gifted freely,

just like our dreams —

the Gift of the Night.

How much effort does it take to dream?

​

But,

you may say,

dreams seem to slip through one’s fingers

the second that the light of consciousness touches them;

thus, they’re mere mirage.

But their images are not meant to be constellations of atoms

revealed by rays of light.

And perhaps there are some dreams that aren’t meant to be remembered.

Just experienced.

Do you remember all your conscious experiences?

And does that make those that seem forgotten any less valid?

Are these conscious memories any less of a mirage?

​

Sometimes,

it’s a matter of choice —

do I choose to attend to this dream

by turning my attention to it,

and thereby attending to what it asks for?

​

A dream presents itself to you

in the most vivid and immersive way imaginable,

in a package perfectly tailored to your person.

What external or conscious experience can offer that?

 

But to attend to a dream, 

a cursory courtesy glance won’t do.

One fulfils a dream’s purpose by spending time with it,

building a relationship with it,

trying to understand it fully —

not just its superficial details,

but also its hidden depths,

what lies inside it,

just like you would get to know a new friend

or beloved,

until you fully share in all that it is and represents

and thereby become one with it

such that you no longer need to look at it

because you now see through it.

 

Why would something come to your attention

even when you have seemingly turned off your attention for the night

unless it is something of significance?

So there is a sense of urgency to dreams.

“Stop what you are doing and look at me!”

the dream cries.

Dreams are thus an opportunity to reflect on one's waking life,

which otherwise would be all too easily overlooked,

what with the hustle and bustle of daily doings,

and all the seeming demands placed upon us.

 

But that’s not to say that dreams only reflect our immediate circumstances.

Does who you are now,

and what you do,

only arise from that which you are currently experiencing?

Or is where you are at now

a product

or reflection

of all that has come before,

all leading up to this very moment?

If there is an underlying reality,

a truth,

to which we naturally aspire,

as is suggested by the age-old religious or scientific endeavours

that characterize human life,

then surely that truth would be accessible through

and reflected by 

any and all points in time. 

Otherwise, how would it be truth?

For something to be true,

it must forever, everywhere, and for all be the case.

Otherwise, it can only ever said to be a partial truth,

which is therefore, at minimum, a partial falsehood.

 

Even if you don’t consider yourself a truth-seeker,

you long for connection, do you not?

Whether it be with another,

or in the form of integrity,

which can be defined as

oneness with oneself.

There are certain things we all seem to long for,

as if they are missing,

and as if we need them,

to be whole,

to be complete.

Things we seem to be aware of,

and yet,

they seem out of reach —

impossibilities,

in material existence at least.

But how do we account for this?

How can we long for,

how can we even conceive

of things that do not exist?

Just you try —

think of something that doesn’t exist.

Well, it exists now,

in your mind at least.

It no longer doesn’t exist.

But did it ever not exist?

How could you have conceived of it if it didn’t?

Where did that conception come from?

What is the substrate

from which you forged this new conception?

Even science says nothing can be destroyed,

only converted.

So is that which you just conceived of

a mere assembling of that which already exists?

And as such,

could everything be said to exist?

What do we mean by “exist”?

If to exist means to live or die,

well where did that which exists come from?

And where could it go?

Or, if by exist,

one means something concrete,

and therefore objective,

in that it can be the object of not just ours,

but anyone’s attention,

then does that make all internal phenomena nonexistent?

How about consciousness itself?

How could we know something exists

without holding it in our consciousness?

Is consciousness material?

And does its immateriality mean

it is not objective?

We all share in it, do we not?

In fact, 

it is one of the only things that we do seem to all share in,

and thus,

consciousness can be said to be a universal truth.

But what is consciousness?

If consciousness presupposes something separate

or “other”

to observe,

consciousness must be the rending,

the seeming destruction, 

of oneness.

It is the relation between self and other.

And yet,

by apprehending something in one’s consciousness,

it means that it is now in you.

Or,

it always was.

Because where else would it be?

If it’s not in consciousness, where is it?

How can we speak of something outside of consciousness?

If literally no one is aware of it,

could it even be said to exist?

So if all of what is seemingly outside is really inside,

because that’s where it is perceived,

and therefore, the only place it can said to exist,

then all of existence must just be 

the experience

of separation

that is really not separate at all.

If it’s possible for one to become conscious of all that seemingly exists,

then all that exists does so within oneself,

is a part of oneself.

 

All we seemingly have the power to do

is turn our attention away from something that exists

to focus on something else.

But what about all that lies in one’s periphery?

Could that just be projection?

And if one’s periphery is a mere estimation of the mind,

would that which we hold in our focus be any different?

 

So having established the dubious nature of material existence,

all we can be sure of is 

our consciousness.

And we each have one.

And it is not,

and never,

shared by another.

The fact of having a consciousness is shared,

but our individual consciousnesses

remain our very own,

for all the suffering that seems to cause,

when, in actuality,

it is exactly what we seek:

true sovereignty

over our minds,

and thus,

sovereignty of the

Self.

If we didn’t,

then we would welcome death —

that seeming extinguishing of consciousness.

And yet we rail against it,

another of the few things that seem universal,

and thus constitutes the truth.

 

We seek out constantly new forms of entertainment,

but all pale in comparison to the experience offered by dreams.

Nothing else can be that immersive.

Dreams not only engage all of your senses,

but they occupy who you actually are,

your inner self,

your consciousness.

Nothing else can provide such fundamental insight 

into who you are,

and thus,

who we all are.

Each dream is a microcosm of your current experience of your selfhood,

which as we have seen,

includes the whole of existence,

i.e. your current notion of “reality”.

It necessarily includes it,

because without the other,

how can we have a self?

Your experience of selfhood is, in turn, predicated on

your current understanding

of who or what you are.

Or more precisely,

your misunderstandings.

Why do we misunderstand who we are?

How can there be truth without falsehood?

But why start with falsehood?

Because it is not real.

It is not an equal of truth —

it is merely a veil over it.

So we cannot end with it,

for falsehood is by definition that which doesn’t exist.

But to suggest something has a start and end

implies that at each point,

something is missing.

At the start, you don’t have the end,

and at the end, you are missing the start.

But how can that be?

Having established that there is nothing that cannot exist,

both the start and the end must be present all along in the other.

And hence life,

reality,

is a circle,

not a line.

The end is the beginning.

Which is not to say the beginning leads to the end,

which leads back to the beginning,

but rather,

they co-exist.

 

What is the most ideal thing you can imagine?

Now, 

what would be more ideal than that?

And what could be even more ideal than what you just thought of?

Keep going.

Where do you end up?

Are you still within the realms of material existence,

confined to human limitations?

Think bigger,

better,

more ideal.

Whatever it is you’re thinking of,

the most perfect conception imaginable,

how is it possible for you to even conceive of it?

How is it possible to conceive of that which is seemingly

impossible,

that which seemingly

doesn’t 

and can’t 

exist?

If it were possible,

would you want it —

that which you deem supremely ideal?

 

What do you want?

Truly?

And why would you want that?

Why can’t we be satisfied with what we have?

Why do we keep on 

doing

in order to

get something

or

avoid something,

which really means 

keeping what you think you’ve already got?

We must feel like we are missing something,

something that we need.

Or,

that it is possible to lose what we have.

We feel incomplete

and seem subject to change.

But why should change occur

or even exist?

Does it even exist?

 

To tie all these threads together,

this much we seem to know:

we are conscious,

i.e. we can choose what to focus on,

either externally or internally,

and hence,

we can choose

what we want to exist for us.

But it doesn’t always feel like much of a choice.

Not when intrusive thoughts capture our consciousness.

But even then,

we have the choice whether to focus on them fully

or to distract ourselves,

even if only temporarily,

and thereby flit back and forth from them to other foci.

And in any case, 

why would we want to ignore them?

Such thoughts are calling you,

as if they have something for you to look at.

Now, if this were just what you think you already know about such thoughts,

why would you need to look at them again?

You already know, 

are likely highly familiar with,

their surface-level content.

Could it be

that there is something you are missing in their content,

a deeper meaning,

that you’ve been overlooking,

that you are being invited to see?

And could it be

that this structure of a surface layer

covering a deeper meaning,

a more profound truth,

could apply not just to these thoughts

or memories,

but to all experience?

Is there more to what we consider to be reality

than that which our senses convey to us?

The very fact that we have an internal reality,

a consciousness that requires sense organs to communicate to it

that which is apparently external,

other,

attests to the existence of that which is beyond

the merely material.

What,

in our scientific accounts of the universe,

can account for the existence

of this inner life?

What can explain how a consciousness 

can conjure up ideas

and images

that go beyond anything we deem possible

in the so-called

”real world”?

And,

what can account for 

not only how we can choose to fantasize such things,

but also 

how they can occur 

all of their own accord,

both when we are awake

and when our consciousnesses

are supposedly meant to be switched off?

What can account for dreams?

 

Why is it such that there can be both inner and outer?

Some things seen, and others seemingly hidden,

or at least not immediately obvious?

Why can’t we just apprehend everything, fully, all at once?

We have but one consciousness.

We can focus on but one thing at a time.

But can we choose to turn off consciousness?

We can go to sleep,

but can we opt out of dreaming?

And what does that suggest about when our consciousness seemingly extinguishes 

forever?

 

Why can we only choose to focus on one thing?

In focusing on something,

it is recreated by our minds.

Rematerialized.

Reborn.

And when we turn away,

that implies that it goes out of existence altogether,

until the next time our consciousness reconjures it.

 

There seems to be an infinite possibility of forms.

But the more we dig down into them,

the more unified their essences become.

Till there’s but 

one.
 

Though a dream’s details may seem random,

it is their very uncanniness

that bespeaks their depths,

that suggests to us that there is more to dreams

than meets the eye.

This novelty is perfectly crafted to draw our attention,

to seduce us into spending more time with them,

getting to know them better,

in order that we might understand them more fully,

in order that we can unveil their subtle meaning,

which is to say, 

their origin.

An origin that is not based in material existence,

but that is found in our minds.

An origin that is an assumption 

that shapes our very consciousness,

that filters what we see and don’t see,

that imbues every experience we have,

for these assumptions are about the very fabric of life —

they are assumptions about 

our Self.

And given that all we experience is experienced within oneself,

these assumptions are projected onto all else too.

So in every experience we have,

we can find reflections of all current assumptions we have about our Self,

until, that is,

these assumptions are seen for what they are —

untruths,

with no foundation in reality,

and thereby, the veil they cast over all that we perceive and experience,

is lifted,

veil after veil after veil.

It might be scary

to think that we are constantly

living a lie,

that all our experiences and perceptions

are not what we assume them to be,

that we have made

mistake after mistake after mistake.

But the good news is,

this means that

all 

is 

opportunity.

In every experience,

the truth can be found

by merely seeing through the assumptions.

And so it is through our mistakes

that we come to the truth.

Does that mean we need to reflect on every experience we have ever had

in order to see the truth in each and every one of them?

Does removing a filter

mean 

leaving it behind in some situations?