Solipsists’ dilemma

I’ve so often worried that the world existed only 
within the boundaries of my 
(stark, lonely, windswept)
mind; so, naturally, your entrance into my life 
felt the most unreal of all, a rare
and seething thing, a lightness made visible. 
still, even my vanity isn’t enough to believe I could dream you,
that I could think you into existence as Zeus did Athena. 
imagine the irony now, that you’ve made me the least real of all.
All I am now is a vague suggestion of
psychosomatic sleepiness, that drifts in and out
with my recognition of your seeping absence.
now it is you who is the world, and me who is the creation.
your gifts to me were a shattering of my will
and a rampant inability to get full breath of air. 

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reblog this | i’ll promote you in solos | dont need to be following me

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"Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It’s like the tide going out, revealing whatever’s been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future."
—Margaret Atwood

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