I
I'm dreaming. I'm melting. I'm not even here anymore. I can remember that I once was solid. I can't tell if my body, my mind and soul melted on a given point or if it was a process that took years over the age. Nowadays, I can hardly tell where I am, and what our time is. The places I visited, the people I met, and the things that I experienced are twirling around within my consciousness - sometimes my memories come at me like wild animals that sneaked up onto me through dense vegetation. Of course I am able to tell what and where I am now, concrete, within the purely factual world - but I'm fully aware that this tangibility is as much construction as the abstract worlds that open up at every second within myself. The person that I can perceive as sitting and writing now, of which I think as myself is a fluid construction - it might switch color, shape, and attitude towards every surrounding of it within a fraction of a second, killing the thing that I consider to be me right now in the process - because this self is an abstract, unreal being pressed upon a collective of cells, bacteria, mushrooms, and minerals. And the world outside of this construction? It's surely there, but I'll never be able to grasp it, but only an image of it - a construction based on my own perception. And thus, the whole reality is a dream image, based on the impressions that are gathered by a constructed, highly volatile, and maybe not even existent persona. Yet I feel that there is something that wants to trespass from the abstract into the factual world - a thing that wants to manifest, that wants to become reality. A story. The only story, I think I can tell. A story about power, madness, doom, but also hope. About what will happen. And about what might could happen instead.