Allegory of the Cave
You open the door, and an alien
is standing there, probably backlit,
as those guys usually are– big head,
long, pointy fingers. The kind
of eyes that reveal worlds.
And because this is an alien and,
presumably, technologically advanced,
he can speak to you in your own language.
And he says, You’ve got it all wrong.
What you think is real– your bathrobe
and your cup of coffee, the bare
limbs of the sugar maple in winter,
the warm waves of the space heater,
even the alien in your doorway, are
a misconception, a miscommunication of
your senses and the particular, meaty
circumstances of life on planet Earth.
But fortunately for you, the alien is here
to fix that for you, to lift you upward
(in a manner of speaking) into his awaiting
transdimensional, cerebral habitat,
for which you have no prior conception,
so that you can know what really is,
so that you can be rid of all this human
foolishness, so that you can rip away
all of the filters that limit you to
oatmeal and bicycles and Argyle socks.
Will this be painful? Of course, this will
be painful. Will there be a probe?
There will always be a probe. But
imagine the scintillating emergence!
Imagine the electric and prismatic you!
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