Dream Reality Limit Paradox

Yesterday I donned a chicken mask and walked around downtown amid the clubhoppers and barmonkeys. I experienced what I shall call the Dream Reality Limit Paradox (DRLP). When an individual finds themselves in an absurd and unexplainable reality, the mind copes by crosswiring dream neurons with waking neurons. Thereby the individual can no longer distinguish dream from reality. DRLP occurs when the individual willingly crosses the barrier between real and unreal and forces his mind to correct its circuitry. An egg cracked and my mind was enlightened. Today I went hiking with an old korean man and his wife. Their son is studying in England. I patch the hole in their empty nest. At dinner he told me "Nayson, you cawn do ebb-uh-y-ting. Pah-low you-uh duh-ream." Sometimes my eyes focus and suddenly I emerge from a cloud and think "Who are you? How did I get here?" Like I had been dreaming a conversation and slowly awoke to find myself having the conversation still. But for the most part I roll around in a giant inflated mucus membrane, following colored threads without doubt or fear or judgment. When I speak it is muted and when I lift at my eyelids, they do not move. Even my ears cannot differentiate one sound from another. My fingers claw at my disappearing face, but it is already a marshmallow. I dig in, but the marshmallow is too sticky. It swallows my arms, my neck, torso, legs, feet. When I cannot move, when I'm totally immobile, the children emerge from their hiding places. From behind trash heaps and silver car doors. From stationary stores and penny arcades. They leap from their perches on the rusty pink peeling green blue jungle gyms. Crawl across sand pit soccer fields. Clamor down the worn rounded school house steps. They all gather round, the black eyes greedy, and claw and bite and tear at the soft pale tissue. Sweet and delicious, melts in your mouth and stickies your hands. When their faces are white and their bellies are round, and their mothers smiling and winking in their skin tight jeans popping perms like barbies and big eyes all flashing. Pinching the cheeks of their princes and princesses, groomed to inherit America's Piggy Bank, two fingers crossed behind their curvacious asses that vicarious dreams do actually come true. If they play their cards right they'll never grow old, Death will be sneaking in the attic window, looking for cardboarders and wrinkle lines, faces worn away by the unebbing winds of defeat and war, but finding only rubber faced mannequins modeling the latest winter trends, so he takes the poor blind dog instead to the other side of the tracks where the redfaced test-failers are placing black and white orbs on a checker board in the park. The red and yellow leaves already fallen, a few greens hanging on a day or two longer, merely postpone the unavoidable. But we're the evergreens babe. The tallest pines that never change. Amid these evergreen trees a lone chicken strutted, pecked, and buckawed, laid an egg on a bench in the park at midnight, and promised freedom to the one who would partake.