Dreaming of Reality

As part of Stories and other things I am ashamed of.

                          8/27/10 

     

     Sometimes I feel like my head is on fire. Like my brain is melting, and like all the pieces of my body are disassembling. It occurs to me that I’m exaggerating, but I can’t help the feeling of helplessness. It’s like I’m in somebody else’s dream. In their dream I am not constant, I am not in control, I’m nothing more than their unconscious rubbing with the unknown, distilling itself further from reality. I just wait for them to wake up, and when they do, I’ll disappear.

     But maybe they notice me. Maybe they are searching vibrantly for me, and I am deaf to their noise. While they scream for me to hear them, all I can do is wait for their whisper. And sometimes they do whisper, and I do hear them, but I do not respond for fear of being led astray. After all, how can I be sure it is really them or they be sure it is really me? How can either of us be sure of anything? It’s all a sick joke, a cruel gesture of approval. 

     Can truth be found in distilled reality? What piece, what fraction of this world could I call my own? And my world, what I make of it, does it stem from some other world—from some other truth? Do the truths of one world fuel the lies of another?

     Perhaps even another world is one in the same? And dreams from one world are realities in others. If so, then who is to know truth or falseness from falseness or truth? I’m trying to escape from your alternate reality, but there seems to be something wrong with me.