After that incident, I began to suspect the correlation between HQ and my own rational mind, since the closer I came to HQ the further away I was from poetic awareness.

Yet, the more I looked at trying to solve the mystery, the more I became convinced that there was some sort of plot to discover. A working of circumstances and events leading up to a revelation or exposure of a great trick that was being perpetrated on us, and as I did this I became more concerned, confused and afraid of the outcome. Very far once more from true poetic awareness. I used the same tools of discovery for both – the poetic and the plot discovery. But in my heart I loved the poetic and was loathe to enter the plot discovery – it was so flat and lifeless, so pat and predictable. And it felt so very untrue.

I made the vow not to look for any more clues as to the reality or unreality of HQ’s efforts, and that vow included a promise to myself not to worry about any contacts – were they real or actors, was this all an elaborate ruse, all that stuff of bad dreams and paranoid genre fiction. Instead, I would replace all this with percepts as close to personal truth as possible. These are the poetic means for discovery of truth, and whether or not HQ can control or use it is irrelevant to me. I may never report back. In fact, I now feel that my exploring of this realm was always meant to be poetic.

I wasn’t making headway, or really contributing to Project Wunderkabinett in any meaningful way. Now I felt my purpose was becoming much more clear and true. I dumped the old dream. It was a poor metaphor. And when I did that, a new understanding dawned: I was to create my own wunderkabinett, not examine and decode the cabinets of others, the long-forgotten museum of dusty history could remain where it was. My role, I knew now, was to make it for myself.

I’d always been a quitter, a dropout. Never could stomach the expectations of the status quo. Even in a refined situation like this quest, I had to take the way that only I knew, to the destination that is only for me. Nothing else works. Nothing else pleases me. All the activities around this Project Wunderkabinett are diversions deflecting me from my own purpose. If it’s useful, that’s good, but if not, I can’t help it. The further I go into the expected route, the more insane I feel. I can’t tell the difference between friends and foes. The archivist? I can’t tell. I have to do my own poetic work first before I can dare to assess what is going on here.

All that extraneous activity is set up by me to stop me from going directly. The mind, threatened by the bypass, throws out doubts, events, interpretations all based on fears fused with cellular memory so I really believe it’s true. But they aren’t actually. There is no connection. I must enter that poetic unknown. From there I will do as needed.

As I stepped over the threshold into this world, I recalled the map the inventor had shown me. I wished I had one of those energy converters, or whatever they were – could come in very handy. Across the threshold everything looked identical, not even a mirror image, just continuation of daily life. I knew it to be true: there was a single seamless reality, not divergent alternate mindworlds. That was a good step, a good omen. The one exploring was actually me, not a partial mind-created replica. It is me, whole.

I’d been afraid of the exposure, afraid of being sent back as unprepared or not permitted in some way. So I made another world of my own, one that I did belong in. But like many such creations, it turned on me. Held me captive so it could continue, for without my participation it would soon dissolve. Oh some of the mindstuff would continue but it all would eventually dissolve and leave no trace, no change to the world as most people live it. But the poetic insights are very different. They go to the heart of things because they come from the heart of things. And they are creations that can last for a very long time.

Independent from their creator, they exist on their own. As such, they are contributions to the full welfare of all. These are the ways of poetic reality.
I stopped and took stock of where I was, looking at the room, its furniture, the windows with trees beyond. The sound of traffic going by. Suddenly it was rich with potential, almost unbearable latent power.

I discover the latent power of all things and it is overwhelming to me. I curse the schools that systematically crushed my ability to connect with this abundant reality. When I perceive in such a condition, all things qualify for inclusion in my cabinet. All things answer this call.