Ideas about Reality

Blinded eyes can still see even though the light that reaches them is meaningless in a strictly physical sense.
But then, in a strictly physical sense, seeing is more than accessing the visible, isn't it?
To see is to penetrate the countenance of reality - a part of which is the act of seeing itself.
So the eyes are as real as the sun that they see.

But remember - don't look directly at that star.
It will burn the delicate network of tissue and blood that conveys its very identity.
In such an extreme sense, the message destroys the recipient, while the messenger remains free.

The seer himself is destroyed by the sight.

Beethoven's deafness ironically built around his creativity a wall that imposed a mocking challenge - "Make that which you cannot perceive!"

After I read this, I dreamt of a man who was hidden from the dream.
One by one his senses severed, to be taken far away from him.
First his sight, then the sound, followed by touch, smell and taste.
He remained awkwardly subtracted from the grand unified deity who gave him birth and then waited till he died.

Of course this realization severely paralysed him.
And now he could neither move nor speak.
He could neither look nor shriek.
Silence was his friendly enemy - sometimes uplifting but mostly a bitch.
He had nothing to do but just wait and be.
Surprisingly he lived till he was about 90.

And then when he died it didn't feel all that odd.
For this man from my dreams, the transition had been smoothed out of existence, and death was now merely a concept in his unequivocally defragmented mind.

No greed or desire had touched his side. No food or wine had gotten him satisfied.
He had drifted through the machine like an outdated key - with no intention to leave or any need to believe.
He remembered the feeling when he could touch the violin strings. The sound that it released had set him free.
Of course now it was but an ambiguity.
Just an uncertain memory.
He wasn't even sure anymore what music could mean.

The old museum that he had first visited when he was three, was now inseparable from the paintings that he had seen.
He had walked through a Renoir and dozed off in a Bellini.
Colors were notes of music to a degree. But then what was music if not wavelengths in deceit?
He had once felt love and that's all he really knew for sure.
Other than that he was not sure of anything anymore.
The uncertainty clung to him like he clung to his ideas of reality - all the while drifting through the unearthly white serenity of some sterile make believe.

How does it feel?