Wonderland

The way throughout the labyrinth is hard.  The way back was harder, and more intricate, more beautiful – so beautiful, in fact, that it would be an altogether more rational thing to no longer leave.  I felt I have been to Wonderland, and it seems that I was born here, or that I have come back after years and years of searching for it without knowing I was doing so.  To lose yourself in such a place!  It would not be losing yourself, it would be like finding where you really have been all along.
        
            It would feel like the rabbit hole is the true way home, and the Red Queen’s castle a pleasant backyard haunt.  It would feel like the White Rabbit and the Mad Hatter are your childhood allies, exploring with you one wonder after another in your limitless neighborhood.  It would feel like you are Alice, and the choice to wake up or not no longer existed.  It would be that in sleep is the true world, and that every weird and marvelous thing is the way things are supposed to be.  It would be the only world that you could call home.  The labyrinth is merely another wonder created in this world of wonders, and you would be finding your way out of it every single time, given enough time.  It would feel like the Cheshire Cat is a mystery that cannot be solved, but the world will not be poorer for it.  It would be the only thing you can call real.
           
             And yet… And yet…  Some small, irrelevant part of you would always be niggling at the back of your memory, as does an itch in some indefinable place which you know is there regardless.  An itch that is in an indefinable place, which would make it more persistent, more real of an itch than any other.   And yet, and yet, you cannot deny the reality of your senses, of your other memory, of your happiness.  And yet, and yet, you would feel like the all the important bits of you are home, everything except your feet. 

And no matter how you fly and glide through this wonderful world, you will always wonder why you cannot properly walk, and why straight lines are impossible.  It would be an irrational world, yes, but all the rationality in the world could not make you see it – for you are home.  But right and wrong could not come in through the front door, so your memory is knocking on its own self to remind you that rational and right are two very different things.  In a world of marvels and awesomely grotesque things, it is the ordinary that calls for so much attention.  In an irrational world, what is right is most secretly buried, down in the dark teatime of your soul a glance at which you cannot spare, for who would, in a place like this?

            You would.  I would.  But then I will never know that I can.  The transition from sleeping to waking must be done asleep, after all.  And I am having the sweetest dreams, at the moment.


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