Lucidity, an Underfable

          Lucidity

          Once upon a time a Mystic sat up in bed, reading a scroll by candle-light. It was late, he was sleepy. Then he noticed something odd; the words on the scroll kept changing. The letters boiled and writhed. But why? Then he noticed something even stranger; his eyes were shut. He felt his eyelids firmly sealed together; yet he could see. But how?

“Oh!” he said. “I’m asleep! And this is a dream!” Within that lucid dream, he looked up from the scroll and around the room. He saw a bookshelf, a mandala, a chair at a table with a crystal ball, windows and shades… dreams, all dreams. On the windowsill sat a flowerpot full of fern. Its leaves had leaves, which had leaves, which had leaves.

The Mystic willed himself awake. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he noticed was that he was slumped over. He sat up, rolled up the scroll, and looked around. Same bookshelf, same mandala, same chair, table and crystal ball, same windows and shades. On the windowsill sat a flowerpot full of fern. Its leaves had leaves, which had leaves, which had leaves.

          The two rooms were identical.

          Moral: Vision is mostly memory.