Dreaming Inside the Moment

I thought I had woken up
when the light touched the wall
in the exact way it always did,
soft, familiar, convincing.

The room knew my name.
The floor remembered my weight.
Nothing felt strange enough
to question.

💤💤💤💤😴💤

Still, something lingered—
a quiet looseness in the air,
as if the moment hadn’t settled
into itself yet.

💤💤💤

I stood and waited
for certainty to arrive.
It didn’t.

That was the first sign.

Time moved,
but not forward.
It circled gently,
like it was checking
whether I noticed

💤💤💤

I listened for sound.
The clock answered late.
My breath followed behind me,
never quite catching up.

Reality, I realized,
was repeating its lines.

People appeared

without entering.

They spoke

without sound traveling.

Their faces were clear,

their meaning slightly blurred,

like words written

just before the ink dries.

No one chased me.
No walls collapsed.
No danger arrived to explain itself.

The dream stayed polite.

That was the problem.

I sat by a window
that showed another window
behind the sky.
Clouds copied themselves
layer by layer,
each one convincing enough
to pass as the original.

💤💤💤💤

I wondered
how many versions of this moment
could exist
before one of them
became true.

💤

Somewhere,
another version of me
was waking up—
stretching, breathing,
believing this version
was the dream.

That thought didn’t frighten me.

It felt practiced.

As if I had thought it before
in another layer,
another pause,
another almost-awakening

I tried to remember
where the dreaming began.
The memory slipped,
not away,
but deeper.

Some things don’t disappear.
They nest.

When I finally opened my eyes,
the room sharpened.
Edges returned.
The clock behaved itself.

Still, I stayed still.

Because waking up
didn’t end the feeling.
It followed me—
quiet, patient, unresolved.
Even now,
I move through the day
with a softness behind my steps,
a sense that the world
might peel back
if I press too hard.

Conversations feel real,
but slightly rehearsed.
Moments pass,
but leave echoes
instead of endings.

I no longer ask
which layer is real.

ask
which one is listening.

Perhaps waking
is just another dream
that learned how to hold still.
Perhaps certainty
is something we imagine
to feel balanced.

💤💤
Or maybe
we are always dreaming—
inside memory,
inside thought,
inside the moment
we name now.

😴😴😴💤
If this is a dream,
it is the quiet kind.
The kind that doesn’t need
to convince you.

💤💤💤💤💤
The kind
that lets you walk freely
while it keeps
the deeper part of you
gently asleep.