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surreal narratives from the space between waking
You are standing in a theater where the audience is the play. You're in the space between waking and sleeping.
There is a guide who knows the way but cannot lead. They look at you as if they've been waiting, though not impatiently. Time works differently here. They gesture toward a letter written in your handwriting that you never wrote.
"This belongs to you," they say, or perhaps they don't say it—perhaps you simply understand. "It always has."
Shadows begin moving independently, kindly waving hello.
A door appears where there was none. You walk through.
Now you find yourself in a library where all the books are blank until you read them. The a guide who knows the way but cannot lead is here too, or perhaps they never left. In dreams, presence is not about location.
You realize you are still holding a letter written in your handwriting that you never wrote. It feels right in your hands—the exact weight of something important, the precise temperature of truth.
The a guide who knows the way but cannot lead smiles—or maybe the light changes in a way that means the same thing.
The exit and the entrance are the same door
You open your eyes—
But did you?