For a while there, I fell into a wormhole. Dreams and reality began to stitch their final seams and the world outside academia bloomed into what would become my first grand awakening since the tragedies of my youth. This pixelated consciousness with sudden drop-outs and wash-ins of indescribable intuition and unnamed colour (all cast betwixt a sobering dose of yoga and bonfires and the dance that was called the pizza-shoppe servant) led my managers and my friends and my family to think I had gone insane. But while they wondered what was or was not going on inside my head, while the simultaneous upward climb and downward spiral of isolation brought me deeper into unknown territory, I stopped questioning and simply was. Had I been on hallucinogens at the time, it all would have seemed so much more logical.
Nothing to come before seems trustworthy enough to describe it, yet no reasoning outside of paranoia leads me to think I am alone, and while I thought it might have been the splitting at the seams, I now believe it was something that we cannot hold accountable either way.
"I am that"
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