Puppet land

The taste of nothing in the air betrays the false reality we’re in. None of it is real, you know that, right? Not even the cement blocks beneath our feet while we walk down this slope. But the moon, rising despite the cracks in the ceiling screen that we call the skies, is as real as it gets. We could wake up to be little birds tomorrow, but tonight we point to the moon and I say ‘Maybe only the shattered things are real and we’ve been whole the entire time’. Could you believe that? Of course, you’d. Drowned in our own falsehood, there’s nothing you would deny, and neither would I. But as soon as the tides begin to rise, we must start finding a way out of the lie to not drown ourselves to our deaths. I don’t care if you’re not real even if it means I can’t touch you through the seemingly endless pixels of air that separate us—I don’t care if you are broken or whole either. The things that are real are only real because we believe in them and I believe in the existence of you — the moonlight, also real, reaches down to touch your face and my fingers slide across the zeros and ones, against the impossible and what they call physics to glide through your forehead, nose, cheeks, lips. The moon turns red and so do we, temporary fake beings in the land of no one. If She can be our witness, that means that we can be as unreal and as whole as the world demands of us. Because my hand, red from the blood of the moon, doesn’t stain your clothes even though we’re connected by this endless binary thread. What a relief we’re puppets, what a relief we still managed to meet.