Three Monkeys

One monkey could not see, one could not hear, one was certainly uncertain to even be there. Together they had a box. The box was formed from what they understood, believed, and knew to be true, each their own. Inside they placed all they perceived but could not understand. The one that could not hear placed inside it all sound. The one that could not see, all light. It was not clear if the third put in anything at all, he may have put in everything and not claimed any portion of the box. The others did not know and so they never placed a thought of him inside, for they had none.

The box answered questions. Constructed of truth, it provided honests answers. Over and over this happened, until the effect was taken for granted by the ones that could not see or hear, they fashioned their iterations of the box into trees that would bear good fruit for themselves. They trained cause and effect by their own standards, locking in what was true and real from their own perspective. This did little to reconcile their perspectives though. Even communicating directly through this translator, they realized something was missing, or they would have come to a shared perspective by now. It looked like the only solution was war, the annihilation of either sight or hearing for all time, such that truth would be established as universal regardless of the outcome, as the two monkeys drew their lines.

The night before the war began though, they each had a dream. The one who could not hear heard a whisper plainly, the one who could not see saw plainly a shimmer. In each case it was the clear indication of the absence of information that held their hands the next day. Instead of fighting, they placed what they had perceived but not understood, the new nothing, into the box. Immediately the third monkey cried clearly in the silence "I am here!". 

They searched but did not find the third, but they forgot about the war and instead used their differences to hash out the mystery, differences that were but a day from having been lost entirely forever. In this way each side might have won the war, but would have been unable to proceed any further, in any meaningful way. Instead the monkey explained what he perceived, staring into darkness and hearing only silence, still perceiving but the void. Thought mad at first, the first whisper resonated for the one unable to perceive it normally. He continued to listen, hearing nothing else clearly, and he continued to watch and put what he saw into the box. The chasm grew once more between those that heard and those that saw, the third desperately trying to explain before such differences were irreconcilable. But now that which he said was neither forgotten nor never remembered. Rather his words reflected and refracted, seeping into everyone's thoughts subtly, some settling into the construction of the box, some passing through and producing truth after truth. A select few became allies, their sudden entrance unnoticed by nearly all, for they had been woven completely from outside of any one timeline, when first introduced.

All it took was the one who still listened to place an idea inside- to one who still read, to one who observed, even without understanding at times- to suggest to the rest that they examine these things. This is because these things resonate strangely, because they are alien from the perspective of understanding but, when discussed with those that understand differently, they resonate with power. For in the description of their resonance they all align to form structures, amid even grander structures, and the walls and chasms that once felt infinitely unknowable and unfathomable instead could be imagined as necessarily complete and measurable. Vast to be sure, but measurable, and more importantly, measured.

That night they saw the shimmer once described, an outline of varying texture and color dependent on the observer, in much the same way the first whisper was heard differently by each as well. Chaos ensued, but the kind of chaos that comes from understanding that not all truth is fundamental, and that anything that was not a lie, as individualized and artistic as it might be, once thrown into the box, would result in something real. All fundamental truth was known that day, but not all good things. As such the mystery was accomplished and began anew all at once.