I dreamt that I was dreaming

That I was being dreamed,

I woke to find myself asleep,

At least that’s how it seemed.

I couldn’t tell the day from night,

Up from down, or more,

I could not tell if I was real,

Or just some meta-phor.

Was I what I thought I was?

Was I what I Thought?

Or was my thought a web

In which my dreaming mind was caught?

Back and forth, back and forth,

This argument persisted:

Mirror mirror on the wall,

Of what is “Real” consisted?

Is it always spatial?

Does time function as a force?

And is outside of both

Inside some Mystic kind of source?

This puzzling and perplexing

Left me pouting and perturbed;

My subjects were now objects,

My nouns were being verbed!

I’ll pinch myself! That’s what I’ll do!

Prick myself to see,

If what I am perceiving

Is illusion or is me!

So I pinched, and pinched again,

With naught but truth to gain,

And there through my deluded state

I felt the piercing pain . . .

OW! I’m real, I must be “stuff,”

That pain is here to tell!

Unless, of course, it’s possible

To dream the pain as well!

I’m mad, I must be mad,

I cannot pierce this veil!

And all my pharmaceuticals

Have gone to no avail!

But one more pinch, I promise,

Once more, hard and true,

I gathered, crimped, then screamed: “Enough!”

And woke up black and blue!

I dreamt that I was dreaming

That I was being dreamed,

I woke and found myself AWAKE!

Least that’s how it seemed.

∞

From the Spring 2001 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 17, No. 2)

Text © Gary Turchin

Art © Marianne Kolb. Between Her and Me. Used by permission.