Sometimes I pray for disillusionment
Though illusions may come with a rush
A dissolving of the self
Of reality
Into something fantastical
A balm for the drudgery
The mundane
So we dream
Spinning a story
An acting out
Of the tensions within
A projection
Onto a screen
Or a person
But in truth I want the tower
I crave the crumble back to solid earth
Even if it lands in disappointment
Or the shock
Of a lie, revealed
The subtle slanting of a narrative to make it palatable
To cast a better light
Or a harsh light, elsewhere
If the contrast is flattering
How important lighting is
To shift our perception
/ our mood
So then, what exists in the lurid light of day?
Is this too something we can love?
Can we send ourselves on flights of fancy while still sitting with the imperfection?
How can we trust our own judgment more
Our own body
Our inner knowing?
What can we be sure of - at our core - when nothing else is sure?
Who are the people in our life that help anchor this reality?