…and once again everything is strange and dreamlike; silver strands pull me from place to place again. i didn't check my map app today, didn't read the bus schedule, didn't read the work schedule. the body was awake, then on the bus, then at the hotel, rote and routine as a leaf's wavering path falling from the tree.
i sense a terrible loss, but i cannot hold it; i am hungry for nourishment and feel the energy capable of propelling me to do many things. i am afraid of fire and deep water. i love sharp wits and soft words. i cannot hold anyone's gaze without trying to eat it all in one bite. i should be on a diet. it's a cheat day.
in a dream you know what everyone is thinking, even if you don't; you dream-know that what you know-know is wrong, and the story-you becomes distinct from the viewer-you, the dreamer-you, shunted from body to body attempting to lap up the moral of the story before suddenly your alarm springs you awake. but if you set up the mechanism wrong, it would be so easy to get stuck, to sever your rope…
…would you still find yourself at work in the morning, if you never awoke? would you still be at the bus on time? would you still hit the ground? would you still flutter, and look for gazes to hold and hoard?
maybe you don't exist unless you're being perceived. even when no one else is looking, i am. i hope i don't close my eyes until someone else's are locked on mine forever.
and then i'll blink, and when i wake up, maybe i'll follow the silver threads until i wake up, up, up, to an awaker dream.
well, G-D, maybe. or maybe just me. the audience-me. the dreamer-me, writing, watching, wondering what i'll do.
am i the me from this hypothetical or am i the writer? the writer-me knows so much more. but to be alive is to guess and gamble. so the hypothetical-me will do as it may.
i will pull the strings until i feel a tug and almost wonder why this time.
