How does that make me feel?
It's complicated.
or maybe it isn't –
maybe it's outrageously simple,
like the condensation that becomes rain that becomes
a raincloud again:
I am all three and dangerously unaware,
trapped in a comatose fever dream
wishing you would pinch me and
disappear.
If I knew how the game was played,
I'd be so unbearably bored.
I spare myself the tedious details:
whether you're real or not—
whether I could ever wake up—
whether I care enough to try—
ignorance is bliss, honey,
and imagination is only everything they say
reality isn't.
The narration is a little confusing, my editors said,
the perspective is a little jumpy,
my thoughts dissipate before they can be
properly understood.
They can't tell whether the story is supposed to be a
tragedy, or perhaps
dramatic irony,
I don't reply because—
well, I'm unconscious, of course.
And busy—
I've got appointments all day; being ignorant and blissful
is quite involving.