I spend so much more of my waking time asleep. Sometimes I think there is nothing else in this world, that everything else is a dream and only the escape in sleep is real. It would be so much easier; there is so little pain there, and so much here. I could sleep for days and feel that I miss nothing, that when I wake nothing has changed. Only in my dreams do I somewhat live.
In this world I am dead, a doppelganger, moving in prescribed circles, speaking words without meaning, and chasing goals without substance. Nothing touches me and I touch nothing; hours in the world slip by like the sailboats in the foggy harbor. Everything is cold, coated with the chill of death; with nothing bright enough or sharp enough to break through the membrane that separates me from the world. Voices are like chattering crows, nonsense noises filling the air and surrounding me, choking me. I look through the view of my camera and see nothing but shadows and light projected on a screen, without substance.
As a child once I was trapped in a house of mirrors. I could see my parents in the reflections, distorted and multiplied. I was alone, inside, and the world was passing by outside. I could find no exit. I ran from room to room, finding only emptiness and my own image. I looked back and they were smiling and laughing, and I was crying, my image was crying, and the music was echoing around me, off key and dissonant. I fell and lay on the floor, curled up, my eyes closed. Only with the darkness surrounding me could I keep from shaking into pieces. After an eternity a stranger, the attendant, came to me and led me out. I reached my parents, and they pointed out that I had dropped my lamb, a prize won at a carnival game. I wouldn't go back for it. They were furious that I would leave it. I could not move. I could not speak. They said that there was nothing there to keep me from getting it. I was too afraid of the nothing. We left, and I could still see the reflection of the lamb, laying limbs askew on the floor, its eyes accusing me.
