A disembodied voice which flickers in from my unconscious and provokes me toward violence, huh? Little devil advocations. How do you know that voice you use to think inside your head is the real you? What if it was implanted by a manipulative band of space pirates with advanced cognitive destabilizing tech while your real self was restrained for several years!?

Joking. Unless? No, a jest. Occam’s razor and whatnot… hehe.

The line between imagination and delusion is often a valley sliced by that very razor, in the end it’s faith and intuition that tells you what’s “real”.

So many assumptions… I wonder if space pirates fit the tone of this discourse; charming.

I’ve awoken in this place from time to time, an impossible glass castle deep under the water. Or is it space outside these windows? Such murky depth may well be space itself. I get up from the table thing and try to wake up in the dream, this place, im not sure as of yet the distinction, if any, between dream and “astral phenomena”; not too sure the difference between dream and real some days to be fair, some real real dreams and some real dreamy wakes.

Intricate panels of clear glass with seams of gold holding back the infinite darkness outside, the gold material is self luminous and I can’t discern an individual light source, the floor is an empty black beneath my feet. In the center of the large, square room in which I awoke, lay a dark stone block resembling an altar raised up several steps from the main floor. I sit perched on the edge of this block, my hands gripping the edge and my feet on the floor, some steps go down on all sides, I have the sense everything here was relevant to my size and wonder if I’m projecting it.

A perfectly fitted environment.

“Are you lost, little one?”

“No.” My voice spoke without me, an impersonal witness to my own actions. “I have been here many times, but you, why are you here? I have never known another in this place.”

The bookshelves across the hall began to luminesce as if an answer, my reason for coming here is always these aspects of novelty.

“It is odd for one to appear within The Chiron and not be known to me.” A little woman dressed amusingly in the semblance of a bell or chime was hovering, fidgeting down the hallway toward my waking table, rather like a hummingbird or dragonfly. Cuter.

“The Chiron? That what you call this place, fairy?

“You’ve come here before and the domain hasn’t introduced itself?” A hint of shock in her voice and tiny face, tiny hands clutching the sides of her bell shaped gown which made her look like a plump white flower bud, a little stamen shock of golden aura for hair which illumined her fragile body. “It isn't what I call it.”

“I see. May I be on my way to the books now lady?”

“BOOKS!” She shrieked.

Oh dear this isn't a dream for her is it. I hate residents.

“These are not books! These are-“

I cut her off, “madam. I know what they are.” Her face screwed up all funny. Unrestrained by bones? A huff and puff then poof she was gone… little puff of smoke and everything. Watching the flecks of… stuff drifting toward the floor I got up from my perch and transited the hall, walking through her remains I catch the faint scent of fireworks, but primarily flowers.

The hum of gnosis reaches out into the hall from the second room, my fainter senses tickled, but my eyes and ears begot the chanting rhythm of the universe.

This humming bubbling light of growth is blinding, overwhelming, I can’t get close to it. The body I watch goes into the rippling force and I am a witness to the darkness… Not even a mind lingers here with me… Into the deep of sleep.