Through the scrim of our misapprehensions, our misconceptions and misinformations, we view the universe. Self-deceit can become a permanent appendage, a new leg that renders us lame. To the Hindu, maya; to wanderers of a more literal nature, mirage. Ever out of reach, ever over-reaching. We chase the ignis fatuus—the foolish fire of our hearts' blinded eye—into we-know-not-what.
The central figure is night and twilight, cloud and haze. Where it is not black, it is gray, lined with parallelisms. Everything is obscure, half-hidden, unknowable. Tantalizing cutaways are falsities—pretenders to light and knowledge. Around the periphery, the way is fraught. A world pushing past its own too-tight boundaries, to spread its—what? Its nothing? To spread its nothing then! To sow the seeds of distrust! Of disloyalty! A smothering blanket of denial. Repudiation! And now, finally, travel inward and see it, at the bottom, as of a plumbless well: the one unveiled, untainted glimpse at Truth.
To see clearly, close the eyes of seeing.
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