Who shall I say is calling?

I am constantly reminded of the inhumanity of the sleeping world around me, it is a dizzying realization. The experience is nonetheless sobering, like being plunged into an ocean for the first time or how it feels to be washed in a cold wave of water. Several months ago, I often wondered if it was a closer approximation of what was truly there, if a tree was truly a tree and not some alien caricature carved out of foreign components, if a mirror was really reflecting a man and not a shapeless image, a mimicry, a routine that repeated itself endlessly, if sound was words and songs and laughter or if it was just a vibrational pattern that inundated the senses and overwhelmed our receptors. The truth is that everything can be separated from its meaning, what is a thing anyway? Is it intent or is it a solitary expression of itself? The line can be drawn quite clearly between purpose and being, or perhaps more succinctly between being and existence, for what else do we see when we look upon something as austere as our hands? Some would gather it is a means to an end, a physiological tool that facilitates living and evolution, others see the extension of an organ wrapped around muscle and bone, and yet again others see the completion of self, the prolongation of the body. Whatever it may be, whatever perception we might have of our hands, the in itself remains the same, but we have fallen victim to the charade once again. Our hands are not hands but an expression of a geometric configuration, it is a chassis of a chassis of a chassis, like a babushka doll, there are shells upon shells of flesh, muscle, bone, of matter. And again, what is matter but an expression? The sum, the whole, the complete yet incomplete representation of existence; I am speaking of course of not only the atomic, but the subatomic. There is a thin layer of space and perception that separates being from existence, one of which is a limitation, a construct imposed by our condition, the other is a dynamic plane of existence expressed as distance in more than three dimensions. This is only half of the notion imposed by the conscious realization and subsequent acceptance (because realization and acceptance are one and the same when faced with this subject) since knowing this and being aware of it is a nauseating experience in and of itself. One looks at the tree, one is reminded of how inhuman it is, one looks at a mountain range, a rock, a stoplight, a pole, a drawer, a door and one notes the differences in existence: the familiar world you have grown so used to, that you have taken for granted per diem without devoting much thought to them are suddenly incongruous, shapeless masses devoid of mecca, the door is no longer square, the mountain is no longer a wave of dirt, the tree is no longer rotund or slender, their purpose is lost and all that is left is their existence juxtaposed with yours.
The response this elicits ranges from horror and anxiety to a rupture, a disconnection with the image that was carefully constructed, of what it means to live and to be alive, to experience to perceive. The rupture is necessary, the anxiety is vital, and all this self-awareness, and the awareness of other things that occupy swollen space around us is worthless if not for the final lesson learned from the disconnection, we live in an absurd world, for better or worse we are as children contemplating whimsical work of art, like fish caught in the rising tide, like dust adrift an ocean of constellations. It is no wonder I drift in and out of the banality of all things, sometimes forgetting and sometimes remembering, but always in a state of disconnection because I know, I truly do know that I am not there.