On the Invisible
by Chardo
Blue Plains

Every age has those who deny the invisible: the greedy and the ambitious who,
through the chance of time, grit, and luck of the DNA draw, acquire money, power, and lots
of objects. Immersed in eye-blink "success", these people see no need for the
unseeable and have every reason to deny worlds which would lessen their status. Denizens
of industry, commerce, politics, and the superficial arts: masters of expediency all.
Every age has those who give lip-service to the existence of the invisible,
thinking thereby to console others and to reinforce their own station in society. Across
eons, the hallowed halls of organized religion echo subtly with the cabalistic whispers
and rustling gowns of these sometimes well-intentioned triflers with the unseen. Such are
the masters of metaphysical expediency.
Lately, combining the best and worst of both these types, weve come up
with a third group: explorers who with clever instruments peek just over the edge of the
seeable, pick about in what they find there on the near side of darkness, and pluck out
new and wondrous toys to anchor us more entertained and more firmly in this Visible Here.
Masters of scientific expediency.
Immersed, sensually stimulated, so distracted that we forget, we forget, that
we all, every last one of us, disappear for several hours every night, only then to
re-appear in the morning and continue in our pursuit of the visible as if nothing had
happened. Given this massive amnesia, its no surprise that we also fail to take note
of the frequent edit-points that punctuate our very waking.
Not quite all are quite so oblivious.
Every age also has those few who learn to not see: artists, mystics. Some
report on their not-seeing, providing lasting reminders for the sighted blind. Others,
perhaps many, acknowledging the dangerous folly of words and images, choose silence and
silent service, probably as close to perfection as we can come in this challenging
dimension.
We the unseeing call them masters and even what they create masterpieces, hoard
and enshrine them and their works, encapsulate them airlessly, revere them
incomprehendingly.
And yet, whether we know properly them or not, on go the silent sighted many
who shrink from the least shout of recognition but do come and help, come and help.
END
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