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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.
∞