Deja Vu

I stand before the mirrored doors of the wardrobe, applying another coat of mascara to my clumpy lashes. The room I see in the reflection is still, silent. A cool breeze flickers the hair around my face. I shudder. Something in this perfectly normal moment triggers a familiar pattern in my unconscious. There is a movement in the glass, small, rhythmic, close to the carpet; not yet seen in my peripherals.

I take a breath before I turn, my mind slows, recognising this sensation. I feel dizzy, nauseous, overwhelmed by the déjà vu that begins to take form. I have lost control of my actions, seeing them played out as if someone else is pulling at my puppet strings.

My baby sister crawls toward my feet, smiling. She seems unreal, unnatural, a manifestation of my mind. I watch every second occur, a half beat after my expectation. The taste of burning acid rises in my throat. Something uncanny clicks in my memory.

I dreamt of this moment years before, years before my sister was born, years before our father met his new wife. How could I dream of this child, this incident, before she existed? My mind feels like it has split open to encompass something bigger than all of us, something bizarre and otherworldly. I feel faint as I glimpse a different reality to the one I know, a reality that fragments the linear timeline we live by, a reality made up of time and space as one and the same. There is no time as we know it; there is no past, present, or future. Everything exists all at once, accessible by the strange power of the unconscious, a dark unknown place within all of us.

The déjà vu dissipates. I scoop her up, smother her with kisses. She giggles. I smile down at her innocent, happy, upturned face. She has no idea how strange this world is, of the endless possibilities that we are too simple, in our thinking, to understand. I reconsider the unknown source of her, our dream world meeting, before her birth. Perhaps her mind, not yet littered by language and social teachings, is open to the concepts I cannot comprehend. Perhaps she knows more about all of this, than I do.

She pulls my hair loose from its clasp. I shake her hand away, along with my thoughts, place her on the ground, and blot my lipstick. Alcohol will sober me up.

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