In a far off place, on the other side of my mind, there's another side of my mind in a far off place. Through the mirror of sleep I can see it. Paradise. And Hell. Shattered imagery that will not stick to memory, instead bonding to strange laughter or beads of sweat noticed when eyes suddenly open. It is no threat in the daylight. Under the blanket of solar shadow, however, it is as terrifying and inviting as anything in waking life. Fear and love worth never waking from. False memories worth waking for. In a far off place. On the other side of the mirror.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.