There's seeing without seeing, hearing without hearing, touching without touching, smelling without smelling, and, worst of all, talking without talking. The face moves. The hands flip, flutter, the eyes pretend to be alive. And all the while I sit there staring one way and the other. As the mouth moves no sound makes its way across the table. I glance down at the candle and lean in closer to feel the heat rising, to sniff the fragrance, vanilla of some sort as the color would indicate. Mint would have been too obvious. Yet there is nothing, no smell, denying, or at least defying the senses, barely enough light.
At that moment I'd rather be in Plato's cave watching shadows dance on the wall. I'd rather feel the ignorance of suppressed reality, chained with real steel, letting the sharp shackle's edge cut into my wrists, ankles, and neck. I would feel the world to be more real with shadows and a distant flame than I do at this moment, again watching the mouth move without the slightest hint of sound. So as I grip the chair I feel all I can do is move pack, float towards the door, finding night and if lucky rain, even a slight mist. Instead, I fall to the ground, hitting the cold cement and continuing downwards through the pores, not knowing when my skin will finish dripping.
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