Everything is Being, in its most quintessential form. I'm reading The Doors of Perception, and while I disagree with a lot of what Huxley says in the book, the concept of "Suchness" as an ever present fundament of reality is close to my heart. I think the mind, in its folly, approaches that graceful bumbling and stumbling through which the overarching world, too, transpires into Being. Things that seem imperfect are tantamount to the immaculacy of the Pattern.
People see seasons and cycles, years, and births and deaths. They see decay and blossoming. They see in this the liminality of truth, and understand, as we do the contained and confounding grid-work of particles under force forming atoms forming forms, that all things are bleeding at the edges. The problem of identity is age old and often understood to be Oneness. This concept permeates philosophy, religion and culture; we are social animals, bound to Love to survive and coexist. We seek to understand ourselves, to understand the world, to make something of This. It's simple, and it isn't. We're making do with what we have. I think everything makes sense, and we struggle to make sense out of everything, because we are tethered to the corporeal illusion of separation; and I think, that is perfect, too, because it facilitates awareness of connection through reflection.
There is a great, profound truth in that all things are one body, but that doesn't make this any less "real."
Real is just a word; what matters is how we choose to use it.