On Fantasy

Why do I choose to lose myself
in the words of another story's language?
Am I so malleable, that I can displace
my own conception of my-self
with the fears and cares of another?
What metamorphosis might work
its helix within me, while my-mind
dares to distract itself deliberately astray?
What drives me to abandon my own reality
for the depths and glory of a fictional character?
Then I become the creator of another story's language,
humble subconscious master of
the images behind my eyes as I effect in my own body
the false experience of emotions based only on past
chemical reactions re-enacted.

But I believe these falsehoods to be true in their own right,
and suspend belief and disbelief alike to hear
the message sent by another's hand only
to be interpreted anew by my own internal
pen.
And after all is finished, I return to my Self
with some gradually fading fear that I might not be
what I thought I was before
and attempt to distract this disinformation by
returning to my old habits only then to reach
for a new world's page, fresh with the fantasies of
another mind.
But who on this dimensional plane may claim in honesty
that the fiction wrought of ink and imagination
is any less real than the reality of my daily waking dream?
So I claim that I wrote with my own hands
the words which crept inside my eager eyes
then past my suspicious mind
to arrive inside my heart and work change there
by way of emotions which I myself have conjured up.
I say that it was you and also I who have together
collectively
transformed within this microcosmic universe
which is only one among many
so that the outer universe may also change
for surely it must reflect us!
They were my words, and yours,
which tried pitifully to capture and describe
although words can never in themselves be
what they attempt to encircle
the forms and textures which color that fictional world
which is in fact my reality the moment that I internally pen it into being and open to let it in.
That moment is now, and has gone beyond question
simple questions which define true meaning by its absence
demanding inquiries such as how and why and what
fall into antiquity
and I see that in this frame frozen
the cross-section of my butterfly revolution
every second is in itself the happening
while my-mind is still deliberately distracted
in another's fantasies and unawares so that
indeed my-self disappears and takes on new meaning
and we must understand that when my-self leaves me
I am all that is left to release from the chrysalis.