briancapleton.com

Our story is a journey through ordered chaos, a thing called the world. It is the dream of a journey in the company of crowds, that we are always amongst, even when it doesn't seem like that to us, perhaps because we are on a quiet part of the journey.

Everyone in the commuting crowds has their own viewpoint, their own remit, their own journey, their own imagined reality, their own imagined past. Their own imagined destiny. Everyone has their own mind, their own self, through which they participate in the great commute, and the ordered chaos. It seems they know where they are going. It seems each knows "who I am". But really, no one truly knows where the great commute is ultimately going. Or who they really are. Everyone only has their role to play, in the commuting crowds.

The crowds are the froth on the surface of a great unrealised sea of striving. Inside, behind, underneath, is the great movement of the tide of the striving. And if, in the midst of the commuting crowds, you ever realise you are lost, or seem to remember something like home, then you might see, in which faces and voices, the great unrealised sea is known or sensed. And where it isn't, is the commuting crowds, the rush, the busy-ness, the seeming purpose with all its diversity of forms of moving, ordered chaos. With its hidden clues, and the winnings of false treasures, and distractions, and then also the real gems of help, hidden in plain sight.

Everywhere in the hubbub is apparent reason and pretend purpose. And false knowing. And everywhere, just everywhere, in the interstices of the crowds of commuting sleepwalkers and side shows and distractions are the illusion spinners, those who would deceive. Those who dream of winning, by spinning the play of illusion in pursuit of a false pursuit. The dream of the goal within the dream.

At the edge of it all, beyond the surrounding forest, through the beauty and the chaos shines the citadel. For all to see. Yet few venture to the edge, and see it. Only those who as they walk through the dream of the commute, through some unformed memory, realise how far they are from home, and seek to know why they have wandered. And only those who seek to know, seek out the forest, and go to the edge, and see the Citadel shining.

And if you are ever lost in the commuting crowds, and know it, then you can see the reflection of the light of the Citadel in some who are amongst the crowds. And even as they may still speak the dream talk of riddles, they will not deceive you. For like you, they are on their way home, but are still commuting. They have business in the chaos to finish. And though they are on the same journey, it is theirs, a journey different to yours.

And you must make your own way. Becoming whom you must become, on the way. And forbearing the chaos posing as order. Seeking help where you must, and giving where you must, and entangling yourself with love in the chaos, on the way. Until there is nothing but your determination to find home. Even if you have to go to the edge, the very edge, and even through it, in order to do it. And there is the Citadel. Beckoning by its light. The greatest secret in the world in which you find yourself, a long way from home. In the crowds of commuters who don't even know how far from home they are.