Reality is a funny thing in that it hides itself. It makes itself a secret. Its malleability is hidden behind a sheen of constancy and alleged truth. We're so sure of things, because we have to be, but how can we be sure of anything? We're all carrying around our truths, like swaddled babies. Our truths are all so different, like our ice cream flavour preferences and our genetics.
We all have dreams sometimes that feel so completely real while we're inside them. I had a dream the other night that I cracked an egg and it was filled with blood. I've had multiple dreams about all my teeth falling out like jelly, or about being tangled with endless, shape-shifting bodies. Sometimes I have nice dreams about meeting dogs or eating spaghetti, so it's not all creepy body-horror stuff and social transgressions (how many years after leaving school can you expect to stop dreaming about being naked at school?), but regardless they are a fascinating insight into the brain's processing of what it knows, or whatever it has collected.
I get this feeling like all of my life is a dream. I mean, I know the difference between my dreams and my waking life (when I'm awake at least, and not counting daydreams), but I've gone through so many cycles and phases of shifting perceptions about so many things in my life. I've grown up. I've realised things. I've completely changed opinions and attitudes. My truth has grown into a completely contradictory truth, over and over. So I guess my truth is relative, and shifting. Everything is real, and nothing is real.