Is This Real?

Many years ago, on a day that only shows its face every four years, a little girl was born into this world. She grew up climbing- climbing trees, climbing rocks, climbing mountains- and finally, she climbed her way into a hard metal desk with a chair welded to it. She felt trapped in a concrete box of limited analysis and stagnant mindsets. She wanted nothing more than a way out, but lacked the conviction that a better world existed outside. So there she sat, day after day, absorbing ideas and information until her attention span filled to the brim and ideas began to overflow. Her eyes would follow her drifting thoughts out the window and out into the world. With these thoughts, she painted.

Splashes of red and orange and yellow became a city, far away, with one yellow brick road climbing upwards, always climbing. She could not see where it ended, but she knew that it was a path she could take. Still painting her surroundings, she ran. The air seemed thin and her pace was effortlessly fast as she drove herself forward with her mind. It was all so easy. And she was accomplishing so much. With every step, the words in her minds eye bloomed into ideas and creations beside her, growing upwards as she ran.

Then one errant thought triggered a small blue stone to jut out of the yellow bricks. This one small idea caught her foot, and she stumbled, falling as though in her arms flailing as she fell through the now thick air. She sprawled on the stone, and lay there for what felt like ages, unable to move. Then she rose again, dazed, to find a dark blue world surrounding her. The smooth yellow path had turned to grey dirt, with many rocks and cracks and side trails leading off to nowhere. The path, once to clearly straight and upwards, now meandered and headed downwards. She pushed on. No matter how hard she ran, the air held her back. She pushed on. Every motion was sluggish and drained her energy away, and she ran as though in a dream. She pushed on. Her limbs felt unconnected to her body, and the ideas that had once flourished beside her now lay dying in the dust. She pushed on. She could barely move, her mind was numb, her words had left her. She fell onto her knees on the cold, hard dirt and curled up into a little ball. There she stayed until a drop of water fell on her cheek. Then another, and another, until a torrential downpour was soaking her skin and washing the blue smudges from her face. The path became a river, carrying her along in the current. Still she clasped her legs close to her and kept her eyes closed shut, unable to move.  Unable to stop the flow of water bringing her down, down.

Then the rain stopped, and a bird began to sing. She opened her eyes to find a world of orange and yellow. In a city, far away, with one yellow brick road climbing upwards, always climbing. She could not see where it ended, but she knew that it was a path she could take. Still painting her surroundings, she ran. She forgot the world of blues and let the ideas flow and take her up, always up. Until the blues caught up and brought her tumbling down again. Her thoughts kept her locked in her own mind, trapped in this wheel of colors, of ideas, of emotions. Then one day, a new thought took seed. It began as an errant thought, just a little idea. Cycle after cycle it grew and grew in the fertile soil at the back of her head. Running up the yellow path, this idea grew beside her. Then one day, the idea blossomed, and a question she hadn’t dared to ask suddenly became all that she was.

Is this real? The thought was quite at first, but grew in intensity as she ran and crawled her way upwards and then was swept down once more. Is this real? It seemed real, the blues and yellows and reds, the birds chirping and the flowers growing in this city all alone, far away. Is this real? Is this all that there is? Is this the world? She yelled it at the sky, and there was no sky. Is this real? She screamed at the city, and it ceased to be. Am I doing this to myself? Is this my fault? Is this real? IS THIS REAL? And the ground fell away from her feet and she was falling, falling down through the colors and words and pictures and images and thoughts and is this real?

She fell into a blackness, then climbed into a hard metal desk with a chair welded to it. She felt trapped in a concrete box of limited analysis and stagnant mindsets. She wanted nothing more than a way out, but lacked the conviction that a better world existed outside. So there she sat, day after day, absorbing ideas and information until her attention span filled to the brim and ideas began to overflow. Her eyes would follow her drifting thoughts out the window and out into the world. With these thoughts, she painted. Is this real?