Illusions

Is it only me, or does the whole world feel like this?

Sometimes I am just lying on my bed, awake, treading the dawn, the red blues hues on my window sill, wondering if the Alice of wonderland I saw in my dreams was for real. Did I really travel all that far and wide, hold the hands of a terribly nightmarish white rabbit and meet the mad queen or hatter?

Or am I Rip Van Winkle, shrugging that last bit of sleep from my drowsy eyelids, wandering in a limbo, trying to make sense of the plate like flying saucers and speedy human being like aliens around me.

Or am I Sana who climbed into Doctor Uncle's time machine along with Karan and find myself being brutally killed all the while watching my whole life flash in front of my eyes before the last minutes of final mortality? Or was that immortality?

Or am I Icarus falling down into the sea of blue infinity after the wax melted and waking in a half dead, half alive stupor?

Maybe I am Thumbelina, nestled between the petals of that huge cozy water lily, feeding off the honey from heaven, drowsing and waking in between delicious mouthfuls.

Who am I? What is the real me? Will I ever make sense of my vagabond existence, my gypsy roots or my longing to break free? My freedom, my love, my life…

Are the people I see in my real life real? Or have they also wandered out of their dreams, from within their sleeps. What if I am really meeting you and you are not you. You are a dream. You are someone whom you recurrently dream about, an arcane dark nightmare of a devil. You somehow took a life in your dreams and walked into my life. So all I get of the real you is a nightmare devil. But it is not you.  

Then is it any wonder, that, from what I know, what I see, you are only a harbinger of darkness, a premonition of doom. Yet, as I look deeply into your eyes, I see a soul- a being desperately trying to claw out of the steely looks of your iced dead stare. I see those almost drowning tips of your fingers before which a pair of green-violet eyes sunk in desperation. Those final bubbles of your breath thrash about on the surface of a calm mirror like lake. Tiny undulations beat at the very end of an almost silent still lake.

I don't see you. No. I see you. Illusions, dreams in a dream. Whose dream? Yours or mine?

Do you also see me in the same nightmare? Do you realize that I may also not be the real me. I may be an angel sleepwalking from the nightmares of a wicked witch. Or I maybe a minx, an advocate of the devil, but got cursed to an angelic existence. Can you understand that? The fall from grace, first and then the fall from curse too. As if I cannot even exist on the realms of badness. The place in existence, where you are neither good nor bad – not even anything in between. You are in a nothing. You are a nothing. Nothing good or bad comes from you or goes into you. There is no beginning of good or end of bad. Or vice versa.

It takes me back to the beginning of time. A primordial time that liaised with the apocalyptic time. A time when there was no time. When the great Greatness thought to make it a bit more interesting, a bit more alive.

Maybe this nothingness was there then. And now it's back again. So it must be true. The world is ending and beginning all at once. Within me, I guess.