The sun returns, shining through my window, beckoning me outside. The trees open their arms, the flowers blink, as small white spots dissolve into the ever-greening grass.
In the living room, E tells three girls about primordial soup and bacteria and a story scientists would tell their children too. The book she reads from tells clearly how all this became real; the book I read from tells clearly how none of it ever was. My experience tells me that this is real: if I cut myself I bleed; if a car hits the cat it dies; if I snuggle with E... And yet, much of my experience also belies this reality, shows me the things I read about: if I give I get; what I feel is what I see; time is not consistent. There are so many cracks in what we would call reality that it’s impossible to miss them if I look. Like it says, look for what is false, not what is true, for that is where the cracks appear.
And there are cracks everywhere, and when one is wide enough I plan to slip through it, if just for a moment, and take a peek at the other side. I do not desire to leave this world; I am waiting for it to leave me. I am not seeking escape; all I want is liberation. When I can handle it, I want the truth.