A sceptic can’t believe. It’s useful.
When it happens – a field tilting, spinning – I must steady only myself, not my worldview.
It starts with the eyes. They fix and unfocus. I am detached. Often it starts with washing dishes. Anything repetitive, hypnotic.
The eyes stall, tripping on their own movement. The brain upends, and I – this one, anyway – vanish. In steps a stranger, into my skin, my sink, my very consciousness. Then –
they reminisce. I’m swamped by nostalgia for a foreign memory. My mouth is gritty and bitter.
This taste…I know it.
The foreign turns familiar, I reach and clasp, something is there, something that means, that matters, so close to understanding –
Then it’s me again, scalding fingers on a ragged sponge.
Can I cast this into reason – a waking micro sleep, intruded upon by a memory of dream?
Ah, yes. That could be. Please.
I can’t believe anything more unsteadying.