That time, what time?

Not so much awakened, as slowly, painfully, torturously extracted from a perfectly happy and well-adjusted existence in an almost infinitely distant parallel Universe, by noises which I’m no longer able to identify as alarm clocks, whose function and purpose I’ve long forgotten, in surroundings that I no longer recognize. The concept of time eluding me, hours, minutes and seconds without meaning.

What place is this?

What larm pierces my consciousness, like hammers and nails on plate steel and stone walls, like chalk on blackboard? What world, so mercilessly hard and real, yet outside my range of focus, just beyond my ability to grasp?

A hundred millennia I was gone, and maybe a hundred more, in places that shone with colours of different rainbows, speaking words of different tongues, floating on feathery grasses in vast meadows where weight and time and up and down are unlike anything we know.

Here’s my pillow, here’s my duvet, the words and their meanings slowly returning to my mind. And as the bed pushes against me by the strange and unwelcome force of gravity, causing an increasing sense of direction with which I loathe to be reacquainted, I feel my dream self dying to the rhythm of electronic beeps emanating from the bedside table.

It’s Monday. Again.


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