1.
Reality isn’t a place. Twist it one way, and you’re a cog in a machine; twist it another, and you’re a cosmic pilgrim, dancing with the stars. Each twist is a belief, a filter, a lens you don’t remember choosing.
2.
They told you it was solid, objective. That everyone sees the same world. But then you talked to her—the woman with the tarot cards and the sidelong smile—and she asked you, “Do you feel it? The way the sky speaks if you’re listening?” You laughed at first. Then you looked up.
3.
Language is a trap. Or maybe it’s a key. Words don’t just describe reality; they sculpt it. The moment you name the river, it stops being infinite. You don’t see the flow anymore; you see a river, all tidy and known. But what if you stopped naming things? What would you see then?
4.
The neuroscientists say your brain edits reality before you even get to it. A tidy, curated package, ready for consumption. The mystics laugh at this—“We’ve known that for centuries!”—but they call it Maya, or illusion, and it feels heavier somehow when they say it.
5.
Your reality tunnel isn’t a prison. Not unless you let it be. The walls are made of stories, beliefs, patterns of light and shadow. You can tear them down. You can paint over them. Or you can walk to the edge and peek out, daring to wonder what lies beyond.
6.
She tells you about her tunnel over coffee. “I grew up believing God watched everything I did,” she says. “Like Santa Claus, but more wrathful.” You nod, not sure what to say. Your tunnel didn’t have God; it had rules. Invisible hands that pushed you into school, into work, into this.
7.
Sometimes, two tunnels intersect. Briefly, like sparks in the dark. You share a laugh, a moment of recognition. Then the tunnels diverge again, each convinced it saw the world as it truly is.
8.
At night, when the city is quiet, you sit on your fire escape and watch the windows across the street. Lights flicker on and off, like fireflies trapped in glass jars. You wonder how many tunnels glow behind those panes of glass. How many universes you’ll never know.
9.
Reality doesn’t break when you leave the tunnel. It expands. The walls dissolve, the sky cracks open, and you’re floating—not lost, but free.
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