Blur.

What?

What is happening?

Where am I?

In my room.

Who's room?

Your room.

I look around.

Who is looking?

Not me.

Actually yes.

Me?

Is this me?

What is me?

Who is this me?

Nothing looks the same.

Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?

No this isn't real.

It isn't real.

It's not real.

Where am I?

Not safe, not safe, not safe.

This body does things; it tugs on the clothes on this skin.

It tries to hold on to itself.

It tenses up and coils on to itself.

Memories of someone, someone I'm supposed to be?

I try to formulate words and speak but the sentence keeps changing.

The words don't leave my lips.

I look up at a familiar stranger, I know I should recognise you but I don't.

I look around, searching for answers.

Searching for meaning to this.

There is no meaning, because this isn't real.

Faint echoes of a calling that sounds like someone I used to know, telling me to wake up, asking me what's going on.

-But I can't respond to you. I don't know who you are. My body doesn't let me.

But I'm scared.

Let me speak.

I don't know who you are.

I stutter, every syllable feels almost impossible to pronounce.

Sort of like trying to move in a dream.

A detachment.

This all feels like a dream.

Maybe I am dreaming, maybe this isn't real at all, maybe it's me who's not real.

I try to move, I try to find my one safety, the one I know, the one who will bring me back.

I find a mirror, I look at it and see someone I embody, a body I inhabit, a face I'm supposed to recognise but don't.

This isn't real.

I search my body for answers, sometimes big, sometimes small, sometimes day dreams of it in weird shapes but no answers.

Still tugging onto this body, I find my way back to the place that is supposedly mine.

The body curls onto itself.

I must be covered.

Everything's a haze.

Powerless.

Nothing makes sense.

But I know it's supposed to.

Time becomes a blur.

A ringing in my ear reminding me that this isn't real.

It's a fabrication of my imagination.

But it's not.

But it is.

In between consciousness.

It's a rabbit hole we hide in to keep me safe.

When this simulation is too much.

When I am unsafe.

My idea of self is somewhere I don't know.

Her voice, her thoughts, like a faint echo of what once was.

This body cries.

And in that I stay, waiting patiently for sense.

Waiting patiently for me to come back.

Waiting for reality to become reality again.

Slowly, after what feels like eternity, I start to come back.

I start to recognise this body.

My face.

Your face.

This room.

My home.

Let's focus.

But is this real?

Yes.

I can't focus on anything.

My body is the only witness, my mind is not yet present.

Ok I'll just wait.

This isn't real.

This isn't real.

Questions, questions, questions.

Lots of questions, no answers.

And in between these consciousness, though it feels unknown to me, it also feels like a break.

A break from the wonderland.

A break from me.

The view is comforting, nostalgic even.

It's a paradox, a paradox of me.