“What if I’m just a character in a play called your life?” he asks a friend.
And he wakes with a playground in front of him.
A park with hawks, bunnies, squirrels.
Doing coffee drug then out to play.
How could any attempt at rearranging the scene possibly make a difference?
A stronger breeze than any person swirls constantly around the globe.
A lightning bolt does more in a millisecond than a man with his allotted years.
There is unending proof that it all works just fine.
Luck pours forth, cups overflow.
Each day not a riddle.
A series of happenings? Maybe even not a series. Maybe all at once.
He looks for novelty.
He searches for a role. Writer. Professor. Artist.
Who told him he was these?
Imagination. Hoops constructed and jumped through. Each time a personal coronation.
But it’s just a pair of beaming lights. I am, surrounded by a sense organ searching a garden for fruits.
A dream wedged between another – there is a divide between the two called “waking” on one end and “falling asleep” on the other.
He wakes, he sleeps, he wakes, he sleeps. . . He dies, he rises.
In the waking world, he looks for signs of progress – of further.
He hunts for a reality and to feed and clothe the body – the meat puppet.
Where – if anywhere – do the waking and dreaming worlds overlap?
Subconscious? A lucid dream blending into ‘reality’?
In the ‘asleep’ world he accepts whatever entertainments, dilemmas and characters that show up, going from one scenario to the next so quickly.
The same as the ‘waking’ world.
The ‘asleep’ world is forgotten so quickly.
And what is that breeze called feeling? The emotions of the waking world.
Small, compelling stories that animate the meat puppet.