If everything is in constant motion, then the dream of life must constantly be spinning. And we seldom remember, let alone believe, this until it stops and the dream ends, assuming that the way to be sure is to feel the kick of external force. Outside change.
But this is an Escher paradox of ascending stairs that create a fallacy, a fallacy which can only be revealed for the stagnation it is from another angle.
This is why “Inception” minions of subconscious patrol their chosen locales looking for foreign catalysts. Though we may seek the easier task with all labor carried out by others, we cannot believe the fruits we pick to provide satisfying sustenance with no knowledge of the tree’s growth.
Thus, all efforts channeled through others in “Inception” are engineered or found to be labyrinths, the difference between the two near meaningless due to the unfailing encouragement of puzzling complexity throbbing within the epicenters of both.
When reality is not enough and we seek to change our surroundings instead of ourselves, we risk an eternity of ignorant torture in limbo.
Such a zero-gravity, static stasis can birth leeches in parallel lives that can suck the former identity out of someone until they know that death is the only way to breathe again.
Those who, while floating, become infested with this disease wither away long before they can no longer be held tight.
And those who shared the experience but emerged relatively healthy sicken themselves with the regret of not being chosen instead. Or in the most tormented of eventually self-enabling scenarios feel the guilt of ever allowing themselves to love in the first place and taint such beauty with their corrosive pattern of seemingly relentless mistakes. Ferried into the assumed-by-most realm of lost cause by the three-sheets-to-the-wind vessel of crippling remorse.
We cannot see the faces of those who can save us, because our focus diverts not from those we failed to save.
The sightless, wandering cowboy. Feigning desire to be led to repress a need to remove one’s blindfold.
Yet, this is not to say that the external must only be a complete, obfuscating illusion.
There was a time when art not only changed the world, but was perhaps the most reliable source for sweeping change. It still harnessed the power to captivate legions of witnesses. And break them. Then help them rebuild this different person in a different world.
Though this world of (self-)immortalization-via-communication may not vote for replacing the latter with connection in a move to relieve the desire of the former’s prefix, at least movements like “Inception” will continue to implant seeds of second-guessing that may one day flourish into those resilient parasites known as ideas, ideally in a community garden within the collective dream.
And once this utopia is constructed by the great architects, all that will be left to do will be to convince all of equal shared responsibility, leading to the dream within a dream intra-utopia of pan-gardening where the truth requires no deception or convincing.
No start. No stop