Even in the world dreaming, I find that I am the same throughout. My bearing, my character, my demeanor, or my personification neither flags nor changes. Here I am in all of these strange places, reinterpretations of events or elaborations thereafter, and in all of them at first nothing is different to the observers. Yet, in short order, they begin to realize that not all things are as they appear and that I, the outlier, am to blame. They see through the illusion the dream sets up and quickly come to know that what they are dealing with is not what they thought it to be.

Were one to say, view it from their perspective, this would be fuel for a nightmare. But the nightmarish elements do not so much as strike me any longer and deflect harmlessly from the bulwark of mind. Even terrible things relived or fathomed in some new, twisted way, none of them affect me, but they affect these constructs, these entities of the dream. What a strange place to be grounded, somehow, among it all and not flinch. The tastes, the smells, the sights, the sounds, the touch.