'What is reality?' She asked.
'Is it the diamond ring in the window?
Is it the story culture has told me?
Is it the Sun's version or the Guardian's version?
Tell me please.
Is reality the smile of the baby whose eyes shine with primal being?
Is it the litter that lines this neighbourhood?
Is it what I think it is or what others say?
Is it available to view or are we only allowed small portions, filtered through particular lens?'
The poet says, man cannot bear much reality - so what do we make do with instead?
'Is it an awful vision which would depress, or is it the glory we could not handle?
Is it something beyond the changes - some pattern or principle which can be abstracted and worshipped?
Is it my foetal clutch of self in deep despair - nadir of existence - or a reaching out to faintly heard chimes of utopia?
If those chimes rang too loud, would I want them banned?'
I've heard it said that heaven is only available for those who can take it.
Sometimes we retreat into lesser spaces - go in the opposite direction from our soul's desire. Inhabit dismal shadows. Concern ourselves with realities of torture and poverty. The choice to care, in realms fallen from heaven's divinely despotic bliss.
'What is reality?' She asks.
'What is your reality?' I reply. 'Don't look to others to define your senses. That is the privilege of human existence. Do what you will. Perception is an uncaged bird, at liberty in a sea of information. Live on the razor's edge of mundanity and magic.'
'What is reality?'
'You are. We are. Everything is.
Reality is a conversation and up for grabs. Where we take it is our choice.'