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Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air; and – like the baseless fabric of this vision – the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
I’m a big fan of human creativity – hockey, napkin rings, hypersonic missiles, bug zappers, those little pointy things that let you eat corn on the cob without mussing your fingers – but when we take a small step back and study the little larger picture, it becomes immediately apparent that man is barely on the cave-painting end of the creative spectrum. In fact, if humanity creates anything that nature can’t, it’s war and sickness, followed closely by, and deeply entwined with, greed, corruption, oppression, subjugation and non-dietary predation. I’m duly impressed with human creativity in all its many forms, but we’re not here to compete with Brahman, we’re here to do what Brahman can’t. Rather, we are how Brahman can.
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"There is nothing so confining as
the prisons of our own perceptions."
