The world is real and eternal. Don’t take my word for it, think through your eyes. Look at the idealists, they knew how to use a good work around. Take Berkeley for example.
Berkeley: There is not existence without the mind. Objects cannot exist without a mind perceiving them.
So to perceive is to be. Oh yeah, then when I leave the room does it disappear? Come on.
Berkeley: Objects continue because God sees them.
And there you are. A likely story. Convenient to invent a universal perceiver so all things can be seen and thus be real. Even Schopenhauer, who had a bit more sense than the other idealists, speaks this treason.
Schopenhauer: The world is my idea.
Please, what about that sun up there behind those clouds? And this beach, these shells I crunch under my feet and this sand washing through my fingers?
Schopenhauer: It is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun and a hand that feels the earth.
But what about time? Close your eyes. Think of a very short space of time. You aren’t closing your eyes. You think I can’t see you? I can’t see you and you are real. Now close them. Nothing will disappear. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Ok, close your eyes later and think of very short times of space. And listen. Rhythms, the nearing tide, the crunch under your feet. Close your eyes and look through the opacity of your eyelids. Is it is all still there? World without end? All the time, and all time? You did not need to see to believe. All still here. Me too. Look, there are my feet. Buck’s shoes. I’m wearing his pants too. And Jim’s hat. But whether one thing comes after another or they stand nicely side by side, the world is not the idea of a creator. There is no Los, that fallen earth owner creating material reality in his forge, or holding his diaphanous orb of fire as he walks into the crypt of eternity wearing Blake’s hat. Nor are there ghosts within. Listen. That’s a ghost talking, Hamlet’s father. Howsomever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother. Now look what you’ve done. I should never have spoken to you. Your fault! My mother, ghost with ashes on her breath, is walking here. No. Jesus! I will not fall over that cliff that beetle’s o’er his base. Oh Christ look now, look with your thoughts. There I go.
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