An elderly man with schizophrenia entered the restaurant where I was eating lunch today. He babbled in a language all his own, but broke from it to engage the girl at the register to place his order in English. It occurred to me that he had made his home away from civilization, in a cave within his own mind, where verbal incoherence was accepted as the price of cognitive fluidity. To what degree have we all made that choice, exchanging consciousness for an interior mythology, and unthinkingly babble to ourselves in fluid reverie?

The mythology has been of great use, but it’s time to remove the wound-packing from our heads. Most of us have never known there was a choice to make, giving our subjection a tacit self-approval. Not anymore.

The veil is very pierced.