Be still my foolish heart
Reality is a strange concept. If something happens in your head, and you ser it, feel it, live it, does that make it real? But then, if you experience the same thing as other people, is that real too? Does the reality rely on shared experiences, or is the world, the universe, all that is, confined to the mind of a single individual? Are we gods of our own making, with our own personal reality spinning a wild tale as time slowly ticks by? And does time tick, only because some other god forced the concept of a clock onto us when we were too small to resist? Numbly, she sat slumped on the bench and stared out at the crowd. Tried to reconcile herself with what she saw, even as the mind struggled to accept any of it. If reality was what went on in her head, something had gone seriously wrong. Or this was how it felt like to go mad. Like you were the only sane person in an ocean of impossible.
There was an urge to scream. To lash out, and cry. Beg and plead with the empty sky, to bang her head against a wall. Maybe cracking it open would reveal it for the dream it should be, and let her wake up. Gods, she wanted to wake up.
And yet... feared to try, in case she did.
Absently, she scratched at her nose. Registered a giggle of kids, and a woman painting something on a canvas on the other side of the other side of the street. Wow, she really didn't want to be painted. Just her luck, to escape all the cameras just to find their analogue counterparts in the street.
Don't ruin this on me
PETRA
