Today I am as flat as paper and exist in one dimension.
The windows are slits as the train spins and spits along oiled, raddled tracks. I've fallen inside the zoetrope, and there are no stops.
If you squint as I pass by, I might come to life. I will seem very real to you, and alive. You will be completely convinced I'm mortal, that hot blood pulses through my inky veins and tumescent flesh. But I'm just an illusion, a figment of your imagination. And mine.
If you reach out and try to touch me, I slip through your fingers like a fortune or the neon glimmer of butterfly wings.
Sometimes I may be visible at the corner of your eye, or in the flaky silver of a broken mirror. If I want to be seen. Like truth, I exist only in glimpses.
When you look for me I'm nowhere to be found. When you don't look, in the excruciating purgatory between going and arriving, I might appear.
The train smashes into sunlight and bends it around thick, myopic glass. Shattered rainbows spill into my hand. I close my fist as tight as I can and squeeze my fingers together, but can't hold on to their spark.
I smile. Perhaps this is how it's meant to be, and how it's always been. Beauty is fleeting; it blooms and decays and its ash feeds the earth.
A cloud rolls towards me and snuffs out the hot reds and insatiable oranges and passionate violets. But it doesn't matter. The secret of light and beauty and truth has been revealed to me again. I remember.
I remember the rainbows are still there even when I can't see them; invisible and secret and magical. They're all around me and inside everything and everyone and everywhere.
This life is a not a prison, but a prism through which I can live.