The world is not real. It is a story whose teller is the cosmos itself, a cosmos unaware of its own ongoing process of coming more fully into being. Time is an illusion, merely a prop for the unfolding tale. Without time, matter, too, is mere imagination. Gods and mortals, primordials and angels, and every other creature that strives, lives, and dies upon the stage of supposed existence, is facade thrown up by the cosmos. The solid-seeming earth is anything but, and the distinctions between the heavenly realms and the infernalmost pits is a paper-thin fiction.
Or, at least, such is your creed, and you have good reason to believe it’s true. The wise know that stories are narratives that give structure to knowledge, and you are wiser than most. This narrative principle runs far more deeply than most presume— you believe it is the core axiom of creation itself. However, knowing reality for the illusion it is, you have begun to alter your own story. In so doing, you have risen above the masses that still believe reality is more than a cloak over the nothingness that lies beneath everything. In taking a hand in your own tale, you have become a living parable, perhaps one capable of wrenching existence onto a track designed by you.