Darkness
Soft and resounding,
repulsive
yet resonant with my being.
I am surrounded by it, with only a faint sense
of self
and existence.
No shadow can pass through my realm of existence; my
vision
memory
reality.

...

Reality?

Is it real, or merely a fabrication of things I wish to be?

Are my thoughts, feelings, real?

Do they exist?

Or is everyone I know a marionette which I subconsciously maneuver, bending them to my own will, for my own pleasure?

Yet. . . the answer lies in pain and guilt.

I ask myself this, knowing if my reality was a dream constructed by myself,
I'd feel
no pain
no regret

And thinking of my sorrows, I ask again
not what is reality, but
what is dreamed?