I woke this morning, unsure of where I was, or even who as my brain shuffled buoyant images, reorganizing, filtering through dream and memory to make decisions about what was real. This has happened to me before. Once I spent an entire morning extended in the stasis of the imaginary only to suddenly realize that the worrying thoughts that were circling my mind had at their core a myth, a dream. The self is a fragile thing, held by tenuous woven threads of memory and truth. Yet, memory is very rarely truth, and truth is dependent upon laws of placed time. It presupposes substance, the verity of other. In that brief moment, when I flickered between two possible realities, I could see two screens behind which lay two complete lives, choices not yet made, bound solely by sparking neurons. I marvel at how I ended up here, in this life, in this consciousness when I could just have easily awoken in another.

I wonder how absolute the frame of existence truly is. Perhaps it is more a matrix of opening circles, and somewhere I woke with other eyes seeing a deja vue room, the edges of me here fading, the fancy of a night's reverie falling out of time.

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