Existentialism

When I walked in the room, I knew that something was off. Colors seemed to be muted and lines were blurry around the edges. More importantly, I think that the door had four handles at one time and even more at another. All that was certain was that one would give me passage through it and the others sudden death. I was very sure as well that the decision was to be made quickly. As I weighted my options a pressing fear paralyzed me.  But a saving grace came. In a deep corner of my mind I heard a voice that sounded much like my own voice of reason. It told me this had to be a dream. And I was comforted.

Suddenly I was awake and grateful to be so. Awareness had a certain palpability that was the reason I knew the door I was glaring at would not grow more handles. I looked at the quiet white door through my moonlit bedroom. Slowly, as if it had followed me out of my slumbering thoughts, an idea crept in my mind. Am I still dreaming? How could I ever be sure if I am or not? 

My stomach dropped into an endless pit and my brain seemed to collapse on itself. I never could know. I felt alone and even the companionship of my sister in the bed next to me seemed a cruel trick, one where she was an apparition or a character in my dream to be ripped away if I ever did wake up. Silence. My heart was pounding. I didn't want to dream, but seeing that I might be anyway, that voice of reason told me my only real option was to go to sleep. I would wake up in the morning to a shining sun and a new awareness.