I am on the edge of what I think is reality
Somewhere between a suspended state
of illusion, and the backlash
of shattering, sobering, breathtaking truth

It's on the tip of my tongue
and I can taste the faint, sweet, dull
sensation that
I think is the sugar coating

I have to break past it,
see past it,
taste past it
Like the black coffee
beneath the layers
of milky sugar and cream

To somehow break it apart
seperate the black, bitter, reflective surface
from it's murky counterparts

Banging on a one way mirror
I can see myself
but what lies on the other side
is a hidden,
mass of intimacy
hiding and masked

masked, as the taste of sugar masks the
bitterness of my coffee
as I drink and ponder
the wonders of my universe
and why I am able to type these words
and yet not have any grasp
on whether or not they are real
if I am real
...

I think therefore I am.
Descartes put it simply,
but my thoughts are the only thing
that can be proven to be real in any sense
because they exist without me
because: in essence, I am defined by what I record
and I record my thoughts

So, the mask unravels
the thoughts unfurl
the mysteries of the universe tumble
intangible to this being who
believes she exists
on the brink of reality