The Sum of Reals Equals a Non-Real?

How do we perceive and remember reality? Is reality the recording of life by the flow of ions in our brains, each separated as a neat package? Or do these singular realities mix, to become reshaped into something new, a hallucination?

Tonight, Rome is stripped of its tourists, its erratic white taxis and heat, leaving behind trees napping under the moonlight and the wanderer alone to explore. The Forum is covered by a blanket of darkness, the ancient marble and bricks relaxed after a tense day under the glare of sunlight. As I walk by Julius Caesar, he points to the distance, where a strange shape catches my eye—I am at a loss for what its proper name is, but I recognize it immediately as the missing curl from violin faces. Naturally, I gravitate towards the sight; my eyes follow the strings downwards—six people are being strapped into harnesses, a few have instruments in their hands but in the darkness, it is difficult to see who has what. Taking their lead, I too allow the tension out of my shoulders, and focus on the murmur of the leaves and the air sweetened by the specks of history trapped within its whorls. Breath in, breath out, my rhythm slows. A note is struck, and the mobile rises, dangling precariously from a cartoonish orange crane, a sight visualized but unprocessed by my brain—both halves protesting against the impossibility and impracticality, attempting to reconcile it with the visual input. The barely perceptible harmony of Mozart filters through my mind, blending with the wind, the birds, and the whistling ruins. The conductor, recognizable not by her baton, but by her Queen of Hearts costume, motions for the start of a song. Her quartet jumps to readiness, as if moved by invisible strings. I take off my glasses in preparation for my final escape. I take one more deep breath, chin on rail, and slip into the past. The strings disappear, as the orbs of vivid blue and red float in the night, a sight that is no less strange than the previous one. I put my eyes back on and walk away; ten steps out, I turn around, to check if the mobile is still there. It is.

I look on my camera for proof of the night, but no proof exists. The pictures are nothing more than streaks of color against a dark canvas. Does the lack of evidence disprove the reality of my jaunts; was it indeed a manifestation of my imagination? Or simply a recreation born from pieces already present? Did the other thousands of Romans have the same dream I did? A peek out the window shows that the streets and the Campo are deserted; people who were emptied into the streets just a few hours earlier have returned to their magical clown cars.

Was last night only a dream?

cw, #4