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The lines were played and replayed in my head - "...I did not pretend..."
Maybe I should have allowed myself to pretend that these new illusions were real. Maybe I should just continue to walk through the blue pastures set before me; to run along the jelly brick roads beneath me, between the space of my feet and the air that levitates me; to climb the lamp posts of nocturnal limbs that bring me closer to touching a star with their bright, blurry dust. Or maybe, just like the fake plants, I should let myself succumb to the notion of waking up to face the world outside my vision.
What exactly is my reality? I asked myself. Contemplation could not go unnoticed.
An epiphany was found lurking between the lines of a comedic concept. It exists - bare and vulnerable - among my silly pretensions, where the imagination plays a role in keeping the surreal alive. But just as quickly as my idealist truths were created, so, too, were they discarded by my inability to sustain their flow - and I had myself to blame for the disillusion of outcomes that offered nonsense to my reality.
If "truth is out there", where am I?
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