the desert of the real

“Where have I come”, he thinks, as laughter tries not to choke on what wells inside.
What is this place- at once mine, and alien? What is this I smell, is it home or exile? I can touch the warmth, but feel the harsh heat.
He steps cautiously, looking around, looking at everyone.
Is this compatriot or foe? Is he visionary, delusionary, illusionary? What are these voices, that shout out over the music ; this din that tries to drown those thumping, familiar, happy beats?
He whirls, furtive eyes grappling with an unsettled mind. He listens, comprehends. But he cannot understand.

What is this belief, how is this belief? Is it all I see that does this, or is it my eyes?
He feels the arms, their tight grip. They don’t know him, but they reach out to him. Stopping, objecting, holding, demanding.
Where has this desire to control come from? Or has it merely been waiting to strike? Who are these people?
He turns to them, reason in his eyes. They laugh cruelly, their understanding locked away by time and delusion. He speaks and explains and argues with them. But they have already turned away, and even he can barely hear himself now.
Where have I come? What is this place? What is happening to it? Or was it always thus, am I the sleeper? What am I supposed to think?

* * *
Disorientation, disbelief and frustration- just a few links:
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