My eyes follow waves crashing upon a very distant shore.
Enough time passes, and my eyes bounce back and forth
Much too quickly to stand, much too quickly to be free of pain.
A splinter pierces my mind’s eye, and I’m cast
Into a hell of images, like a serial killer’s funhouse.
My vision melts away to reveal my sight as a lie.
I’ve never seen the ocean before, but my memory
States differently--no, not memory, not memories.
It was a dream, a dream in sleeping… or a waking dream?
Then what of my past, the memories scatterplotted
Between sleep intervals I hope really happened?
Was I sleeping? Was I dreaming? What memories are real?
I want to remember, as my mind tracks a nightingale
Across a field of grapes and a lost man’s soul…
No, that wasn’t me, that was Keats, not me. (1)
What memories are real? I want to know,
As I collapse to my knees in a broken dreamscape.
Am I awake or still dreaming?
Am I really losing my sanity, or is this, too, a dream?
I… I’m still waiting to wake up.
I’m still waiting for the dream to end,
For my consciousness to return to reality… aren’t I?
Someone tell me. Someone tell me what is real.
Tell me if I’m awake. Tell me what memories are real?
Tell me I’m not insane.

(1: reference to “Ode To A Nightingale” by John Keats)