I guess it’s funny how, despite my best attempts to shield my heart, you slipped through the chinks in my armour and wound your way through my veins into the eaves of my heart.
For the most part I exist in a limbo wonderland. The air moves languidly, living reality through a filter. You shatter it, like glass. It bleeds everywhere, so I have to tread carefully, tiptoe as to not break the illusion.
You keep asking me if I’m real. I don’t know - maybe I’m just a product of someone else’s prolific image imagination. What you mean, perhaps, is if I’m genuine. Yes, a thousand times over.
It’s funny because you don’t seem to realise how much you’re coming to mean to me. It’s funny because I didn’t realise it, either. You came to me like a wave beneath my feet as I stood there, dazed, beached on an eternal island, and before I knew it I was submerged in you, through you, with you. And time is moving again.
Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times over. You meet me at that vertex, that apex where the sun merges with the sea. I always thought being alone was an inevitable outcome of the human condition, to ultimately walk it alone, this contemporary condition: our lives of quiet desperation. Always together, always alone. Hypermediated, hypersaturated, hypersocial.
Are androids truly capable of dreaming of electric sheep? It’s funny because you’re think I live half-waking in an alternate dimension when you are the one who is alien, fascinating, bewitching. A creature from the otherworld. Like I’m a firefly, I’m drawn to your cold, blue light, which beams, unwavering, through the static of my dream.
You were (are) disbelieving of my manifestation, but to me you come of little surprise: it’s strange how comfortably you sauntered into my mind and made a corner there, like you’ve always belonged here. Not a meeting, but a homecoming.
Somewhere, there is an eternal garden that is perpetually in bloom. It pulses and sighs according to the beat of its heart, a crystalline rose that glistens like tears and is cocooned by barbed vines reaching up from the dark, salt earth.
The rose knows of the garden, has always existed in the garden, but has never really seen the garden. It merely observes its existence through the perforated cracks in between. For a hundred years of solitude it observed a millennia of generations of reincarnation, over and over again.
And then, suddenly, a light springs unbidden into the sanctuary, hot and riddling holes in the vines. I’m terrified - what if the foreign air poisons me? I’m used to breathing shallowly so as to not feel deeply. What if everything I’ve glimpsed is just that - a shimmering mirage?
And yet despite everything, I find myself releasing my shield, my rose tinted filter. Irrevocably, I find myself drawn to the light.
Finally, I lower my guard and peer through the crack in the unbearably blue sky, and through it I see you.