My theory about reality
is that it does not exist.

Reality is a figment of the mind,
which can be morphed, twisted, and altered,
based on how the individual sees fit.
Reality rests in one’s perception—
flimsy and weak.
It can be tweaked easily.
I used to do it all the time.

For a while, my reality was endangered,
because my mind was constantly hanging
off the edge of a steep cliff.
I fed it with colorful substances
that made my vision fuzzy 'round the edges
and left my fingers tingling
as if licked by electricity.

Manipulating my perception took on
a graceful, gradual easiness,
and life was less painful that way;
objects and thoughts became
murky, dull, and intangible—
like lying in a pile of clouds
and fluffy, cotton candy pillows
while the whole world passes you by.
Everyone you glance at
is in dark robes, their faces plastered
with stern expressions, but you
are the only one smiling
and the only one wearing white.

It felt nice, simply, and so
that’s why I did it,
and that’s why I did not stop.  

Facing reality is too difficult
when you are drained and feeble.
It’s a truth I still acknowledge
from time to time, when my feet
are too tired to walk and my hands
are too tired to play.

He was dead too, I believe—
deep, deep inside—
but he never let me see that weakness
even though I suspected it
and tried to find it.
I knew it was there in him,
that same thing I had that made my knees
wobbly. He was good
at pretending and perhaps
that was why I really loved him.