Reality was not a line. It was a chorus. A tango of overlapping selves, all of them real, all of them true, all of them bleeding into one another at the edges. Most people never noticed the bleed. They were too busy choosing, too busy collapsing their own wave functions with every glance, every word, every silent decision not to speak.
The cost mounted. Migraines. Gaps in her memory—not of the other realities, but of her own. She would find herself standing in her kitchen with no recollection of how she got there, a teacup in her hand that had been empty a moment ago and was now full. Once, she looked in the mirror and did not recognize her own face for a full ten seconds. dance of reality
The dance is not the point. The dancer is not the point. The point is the floor beneath your feet. The point is the single, fragile, irreplaceable step you take right now, in this world, with these hands, this breath, this heart. Reality was not a line
The dance is not a metaphor , she thought. The dance is the mechanism. Most people never noticed the bleed