People say, as a superlative, "you are so REAL!"
And I'm thinking, "what paradigm are you reinforcing?"
Truly if they were fake and I were real, they would need me to believe they were real, so that some kind of threat of consequences would be reinforced, lest the world become just a dim valley of rape puppets for only my amusement.
And, conversely, were I not real, I would reinforce the paradigm, being at least as real as your own perceptions, as real as the CONCEPT of the real world that exists in your mind.
Indeed, the illusion, were it merely an illusion, would have to be upheld, but being at the same time to staid, trivial, humdrum and once too fancifully weird to be real. It's not one man's dream, this reality, but the dreams of hundreds bouncing off of one another, millions of different unique dreams colliding and inter-reacting and knitting into one another.
All those dreams are woven from that one unique tapestry of source material called REALITY. Without that, our dreams have no form, things have no shape, no color, and no other perceptible qualities, not to mention physical substance or randomized psychotic personality. For the truth of the matter is that we dream of reality, of our own thoughts taking control, and in the moments before we awaken, we maybe even take active control of reality, shaping everything, speaking the dialogue of all of the characters, rubbing our chops as we decide dully the "what next", as we dictate the future.
"Some of you are still human. I know that, because if you were all Things, you would just overtake me right now." -transcendentalist RJ Mcready.
Maybe our perception is a kind of stuntified reverberation of all of nature, all of mankind, and then when that is gone, we lay in confusion, when we should really be clear of thought. It's as if we were born in the noise of the city, and when that's gone, its too quiet, with that ringing in the ears piercing us straight through, being like a white noise of complete lack of direction.
Let all of nature carry that vibration, of myself not wondering what is real, but simply saying, echoing through the forests and across the hills that "I AM REAL", not that "I think; therefore I am", but that I process nature as nature processes me. Myself and each leaf and pine needle in the woods are as much brethren, sharing a common bond to earth, as anyone else, becrying a certain dignity; yet I have dreams and the effluvium of the forest does not. Does not think; cannot know the discipline of taking a shower in an otherwise empty house, or even the beguiling romance of daring to ask a question, then waiting, hushed, for an answer.