This Room Called Reality

I felt as if I had just woken up from a long, long dream in which I had been many, many beings: man, woman, criminal, judge. Where I had been a saint and a sinner. A fish. I had seen myself as daughter and mother. Lover. I was the betraying one and the one who cried in desperation after being betrayed.

I had had many dreams and I had seen myself lost in all those dreams, in all those worlds. I remember myself collecting pieces of me, calling them my companions. Members of a group that searched for an idea, an illusion that we called reality. Futile enterprise. For nothing in that dream could be called reality.

There is only this room. Only this chair. Only me and no other. I am where I have always been and there is no one else. I have always remained in the here and now, even throughout all those changes of form and vision, immersing myself into the hellish vistas of pain and unending suffering with the hope of forgetting the real world, searching for heavenly spheres of life and peace and happiness–eternal happiness–only to be able to forget the stark reality of the here and now. That here I was again, all alone. Nowhere to go in this room called Reality.

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