Into Blue Dusk – i.ii

I have scraps of memories from my early life. Nothing huge or of any sort of consequence, though. I have vague recollections of a birthday party for when I turned two, though I believe I remember it more from pictures than anything else. There was a time I had been in the kitchen ready to eat breakfast, and I leant under the table and ended up bumping my head. Just vague things like that, but nothing more.

My true memories are of my dreams. Those are the things I remember most of all, as if the dreams I had were my real life, and those memories of my real life were but faded dreams. I have memories of things that, thinking back on it, looked like a dream, but I think is something that actually happened. Or maybe it was a memory of a dream of a memory.

The mind is funny like that. When you think too deeply about things like this, you start to wonder if you actually exist; if reality as you perceive it is false and everything is just a dream. Ever had deja vu before? That feeling when you begin to do something, and you swear it’s something that you’ve done before, though you truly can’t remember a time you’ve done it, but there’s a strong, pulling feeling telling you that you have. It’s kind of like that. Where dreams and memories meet. When can you tell the difference between the two? What is real, and what is false? Do the two connect in any way, and how does it all really matter in the long run?

When your mind is steeped in nothing but the memories of dreams which drown out the memories of your own life, how are you supposed to cope with your reality? You start to see things in a different way. The people you interact with daily can become twisted during your night life – something evil and malicious, or perhaps just blank-faced ghosts. The things you love and cling to so dearly can also fall prey to that twisted dimension, making what you used to find comfort in be a thing to fear.

And the worst part about it is that no one else can experience those things the way you do. Even attempting to explain it wouldn’t do it justice. The world of dreams is one of the senses, not of actions and visions. Emotions and inner feelings run rampant in this realm, so no one could possibly ever experience it the same way you do. And because of that, when you’re trapped by dreams, you’re trapped alone. No one you tell will understand. They’ll brush it off. “It wasn’t real.”

It wasn’t real. How do I know I’m real?

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