One day I woke up – at least I think I woke up – perhaps I was having a dream.

The main sensation, which I can claim is far preferable to the past, was that of a quite comical environment and substrate I find myself within. A lightness permeated the random and structured thoughts which passed through the mind throughout the day. Almost as if a great weight had been lifted from the previous standard deviation.

To realize a complete disillusionment affords one a freedom, once embraced. They say it is easier to fool someone than to convince them that they have been fooled. I would add that it is easier to digest having been fooled about B, C, and D, once it is accepted that I have been fooled about A. The rest of the alphabet is ahead of me, and I welcome, even relish in it. The pattern recognition of processing these ‘unlearnings’ gets easier each time, and reality becomes less of a reach, the less resistance I apply.

Given the humor I am able to apply and enjoy to these matters of generally-accepted truths and propaganda, revisionist history, and the like, it becomes quite effortless and of far less emotional impact than it used to, to update the firmware of what I believe to be so, or not so.

In many cases, it ceases to matter, and I relax. There is no need to alert loved ones or the general public to the nature of things we are experiencing, being subjected to, or consenting within; a well-oiled system of comedie and tragedie is the way of the world. It’s only dark if I choose to let shadows frighten me, or I presume a negative prognostication of the future. It’s certainly not black or white, and it’s all relative any way you slice it.

Whether people wear masks, change, pretend to be someone they are not, or disappear, can be very entertaining. Conspiratorial minds enjoy their research and derive great perceived value in knowing the truth, and that is good for them. It’s not for everyone. Perhaps nobody is as we think they are, because we have enough difficulty determining who we ourselves want to be on a given day.

Shakespeare explained four hundred years ago that we live our lives on a stage, and play seven roles throughout life. Jung could explain further. Spiritual knowledge could reveal that the cycles go way beyond that anyway, but suffice it to say we can’t even tell when we are dreaming and when we are awake, despite the objective and subjective extremities of either state of human experience.

Writers have their due creative control over published narratives, and it can be understood that it is impolite to messily pull back the curtain of a stage being changed, set pieces, costumes, and all, from the perspective of the audience that paid hard earned money for their theater tickets.

“Who cares about the Truth?!?!?” is a far more widely-held position that most would admit to holding, given that our sense of honesty, virtue, morality, and justice depend on caring about such things; the way we each live, if admitted solemnly to ourselves in a private mirror, is far less black and white, again, than that.

The unstated observation in diverse cases is the juxtaposition of incredibly inconsistent and unbelievable details, and the cognitive dissonance resulting from those trying to be integrated. I don’t know what is more outlandish – the contradictory elements dancing and dangling in plain sight, or the gymnastics of denial of the obvious in the beholders’ performance of critical thinking – performances worthy of a failed America’s Got Talent audition that go viral on the purely humorous merits of their Cinéma Verité.