Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
I imagine all the people I am and I am all the people I imagine.
If I was to sit, my back pressed against one of the trees in the middle of Fitzgerald Avenue and watch the traffic, to be amongst it, what would happen?
For a time, I suspect, nothing much. People would drive past, on their own journeys. Whichever way I faced, I would have my back to one stream and my face to the other. Some would come from behind, while others would come toward me. Some might look up or to one side and observe me. Others would not. They might wonder why a man was sitting there. They would, no doubt, draw their own assumptions about why I was there and a few might wonder who I was. Almost all would make some kind of judgement. He is a nutter; he is homeless; he is a druggie or he is mad. In doing so they would affirm their own beliefs. They would pin their own illusion on me, or attempt to do so.
I might do the same. but I would try not to.
After a time a police car passing either by chance, because our lines intersected, or because someone had called them to report a strange guy in the middle of the traffic island, would probably stop and come to check me out. I suspect that the policeman would already have formed his own illusions about me and the interaction from that point would be driven by his own subconscious, that which controls 99.999% of how we operate. He might ask what I was doing, if I was OK, and if I needed help. He would probably ask to see some form of identification.
My response might be to say that I was there to observe and to learn about the Universe and my place in it, that from my time there I had learned that all matter is interactive; that time exists contiguously rather than consecutively and that there is therefore no past, present or future, that Reality and reality were 2 different things. He would probably skim through his Book of Possible Offences and find one that fitted; or he might sit down on the grass and join me, curious at what I had to offer him. We might spend a period of time together and I would then be able to share my Illusions or, better still, my slow crawl away from Illusion.
For a time Time would be suspended and we would be in a bubble, floating with Time, part of it but not. All the time the traffic would continue to pass. No doubt the passing drivers would be forming new illusions about the policeman and me. Then, like all good soap bubbles, the moment would snap..or not. His radio would remind him of his own illusions and he would probably either arrest me, or tell me to be careful and cross back to his car.
All this time the traffic would continue to flow and the passing drivers would continue to come to their own illusions about what they saw.
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