Emptiness

Is it possible that I am empty?
That all the cells and molecules
of my existence are actually
the void itself?
My mere witnessing of self
seems to make me so.
And others.
And life's happenings.

I witness.
I feel.
Oh, yes, I think therefore I am, right?

But what if I wake up from a dream
that felt so real with its linearness
and multi-faceted characters,
and sensations of real pain and orgasm,
only to be relieved - or saddened - it ended?

Would the true I feel the fogginess of
swollen eyes and roll over to check the time?

Would morning still be morning with its 
crispness and wonder of what's to come?

That true I - whoever she is -
might not be a she at all.
No periods, no menopause, but 
also not the gloriousness of
pregnancy and childbirth.

I wonder...
or at least I think I wonder,
as this could be the wonder of the dream.

If that is the case then why can't I fly?

Now that I think about it, I haven't
flown in dreams for a long time.
Let me tell you of the flying dreams
of my she-character.

They began at a young age, launched in flight,
barely out of reach in fear and escape.
As horrific as my water swimming, I could
hardly doggie paddle, an embarrassing effort.
Some kind of chase. Some threat.
Often within a big building and no where to escape.

As I grew my flying became more easeful, 
but still a necessity of escape.
By my late twenties I had mastered flying.
No longer hovering above heads, 
I could move amongst the stars
though the sense of the earth's shield
containing me here was palpable.
I even began teaching others to fly.

But now my butt is anchored heavily 
on my couch, my eyes swollen 
from aggravated dreaming.
A dull headache worsened by 
pancakes and syrup because -
well, it's Saturday and I owe 
myself pancakes and syrup.
Eaten to fill that emptiness
and aggravation.
An emptiness that longs for more.

"Fill me," it aches.
Like the void itself.

I hear her.
I hear her called to be filled.
She needs the matter to
take up her emptiness.
And it tries.
But no matter how big
or scrumptious or sharp
or willing, it can never fill 
the void.
It only pretends to touch her.

And she is left
​contemplating
her emptiness.

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