Reality is relative. What I call blue, you call purple.
What is up to me,
There is no way to know which is really true. These words you are reading now aren’t even really what you see – nothing is.
You can’t even trust your own eyes to tell the truth – or can you?
What do you see?
What are you reading right this moment?
Is it a poem?
Are these words on a page?
Are they my thoughts?
Are they your thoughts?
Whose thoughts am I transcribing on this page – if it’s a page at all?
How does one compose a piece on reality when one does not know reality from fantasy?
It’s easier now than it was before.
Easier to guess at reality – or what I think is reality.
Sometimes – I still get lost. Lost in my own mind. A small piece of me is aware, I know that it isn’t real. I know, but I can not resist the tidal pull of what I know is not.
I feel the ebb and flow of air through my lungs even as I know beyond a doubt that I am not alive and all air has ceased to turn my blood deepest red.
But I believe it more than anything.