Shimmering, pale, heavenly, what not? Oh, but it was all but that. Oh-so it was wished by him to be that. Alas, it was not, not even in the slightest. A sole ray of light shone through a hole in the velvety blue curtains found its way along the wooden floor and up the mattress. Continuing to the top of the crimson duvet and right into his eyes. A dream is an attempt to escape reality—where one truly is in control, where one is the only real thing. An escape from having to wake up again... again. Again, again, again. Not a word anymore—just like it was not sleep anymore. Oh, what it would mean to live a life worth living... Time is meaningless, yet others expect it to be adhered to, so he jolted out of bed. The mattress creaked in pain as he stood tall—feet straight, back slouched. His vision blurry from the abruptness. He was not too tall, not even six feet, but he held himself high. In an attempt to counter life's bane, he marched up to the curtains and parted them. The sunlight blinded him as he squinted his eyes. Through the stained window sat a mysterious, peculiar old man in a long, brown trench coat on a viridescent bench. He looked dishevelled—unkempt, yet classy—a gentleman. His fedora like an 80's detective, his pointy boots like an Englishman. Suppose he was an Englishman—he certainly seemed like one—but why all the way out here?
That was his second question. Everything that happened that morning felt surreal, and only more detached from reality than he ever wished for (though he often wished for it). Suddenly out in the fray, this. It was all too sudden. Out of impulse, he opened the window and called out to the old man, "Hey!" The Englishman did not stir, for a while at least. Soon he simply stood up and turned around. His face remained hidden in the shadows of his collar and hat. The man gave one glance back at the window and retreated out of sight behind the partially opened curtains. The Englishman stood for a while longer before finally returning back into frame to sit back down on the very same bench. Meanwhile, still at the window, he silently shut the curtains tight and paced around his bedroom for five minutes, maybe more, maybe less. "Suppose he’s gone by now," he said, referring to the Englishman. "Perchance—no! No, I can’t just say 'perchance'. " It was decided he would peek through the curtains to see and assess the situation outside—whether the man was gone or not—and he did just that. He made his way to the window, and with one eye he squinted out into the garden. He saw nobody. The bench was empty, the garden empty. The birdsong had stopped. He looked down at his bare feet resting on the cold wood floor. He promptly went back to bed, and let out a sigh as he succumbed to the mattress, before closing his eyes—grimacing.
*Solipsism: the theory that only the self is real and that the self cannot be aware of anything else except itself.
Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one. - Albert Einstein