Sometimes I imagine a display of hundreds and thousands of threads. Multicolored and changing, flickering and flowing. Twisting and turning, Weaving in on each other, meeting, intertwining, parting. Threads of dreams, thoughts, fleeting emotions. Figments of subconscious imagination, leftover fragments of unfinished thoughts. The entirety of the realm of perception conceived of the sophisticated and untamable mind. And amidst this tangled network of swirling, lashing strings is a single, unspecial thread, that one we call 'reality'. Just like the rest, it cuts an erratic, ludicrous path through the landscapes of our consciousness. Just as fickle, just as fluid, just as laughably amorphous.
But there is one lethal difference. The impossibility of escape.
But it nonetheless becomes tempting, to turn the back on the unfeeling, mindless twists of that ridiculous thread. To go to sleep, wrapped in folds of dazzling impossibilities, covered in sheets woven of the fantastic.
And simply dream reality away.
Yes, I am but spouting nonsense.
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