We are mirrors. Echoes. The smoke of a dream. Did the Universe dream Us, or We, It?
When I sit in an empty room, or move along an orange sidewalk filled with quiet strangers, my thoughts turn to the world. The world is a black canvas. I prick holes through it, and the rips show lights streaming through. I put the space I’m in, inside that damaged cloth, and I wonder, where do I fit in?
If I am a piece of light, being carried through a rip, onto the other side, how do I go back? If I am a piece of light who can see the world, how did I wander through?
There is a picture of man with his feet on the earth, his shoulders hitting the limits of the heavens, and his head poking though the thin sheathe of reality. He saw the other side. All I know of it, is that it exists beyond space and time. Space. Time. What grand words.
But Time is merely the sensation of moving forward, that this moment is different from the next. While Space is merely the difference, between empty and filled. The Scientists say, that there are sensations to Time that I can never feel. But perhaps the Me still behind the piece of cloth can feel all the parts of Time which I cannot.
Perhaps I am just a dream. The world is a piece of smoke wavering on the tip of God’s laugh. When all the dreamers awaken, the cloth will mend itself, the lights will return, and I will be a waking afterthought already disappearing.