Category: Writers Block
I knew a dream once. I spoke with an illusion. I spoke with a memory. I spoke with the dark side of her mind. I held an illusion. I spoke to the night of her subconscious. I spoke to the fireless flame, the lightless fire ... I walked in the twilight of my life under the brooding shadow of Death with an illusion who stood bright in my mind and held me and gave me his energy, and the strong winds blew away the clouds. I stood under the rays of the sun with an illusion that I held in my arms. I stroked its head
and told it everything was going to be all right. And as the illusion's spirit tried to flee its thought form and it was consumed in its own energy disruption bursts I held it, comforted it. What do memories give us? What do illusions bring us? Can unreality have a soul too, a heart and mind and self? Can illusions love? Can I breathe life in to an illusion and give it meaning and self? Can I breathe my own existent reality in to a memory and touch a face I have never seen and hold its existence within me?
Yet the illusion is more real than I. Can it breathe life in to me, and give me self, give me meaning? What is this life but illusion? What are we but passing thoughts of something greater? What is real? Are the illusions we shun more real than us in physical form? If I said nothing was real you could not dispute it because you could find nothing with reality.
I'm sorry, my crap cut and paste made me have to do that.