you are an illusion

 

The day was heavy with clouds, the sky wrapped in a gray shawl. Mist curled along the windows, and the birds hummed soft tunes, as though even they were too drowsy to sing sharp.
Inside, on her bed, she lay—a lady without hurry, without guilt. The noon sun, hidden behind the gloom, let her believe it was still night. She smiled at the trick, turned to her pillow, and let her mind wander in that half-dream land.
Her body refused the weight of chores, the pull of clocks, the noise of life. She decided, instead, to rule her own little kingdom of rest. A kingdom where her throne was a blanket, her crown a tangle of hair, and her loyal subjects the drifting thoughts that floated in and out like visiting courtiers.
Every time her mind reminded her, “It’s noon, not night,” she laughed inside. Noon belonged to the world outside, but here, in her secret chamber of dreams, it was always midnight. And she—lazy, proud, and free—was its queen.

She lay sprawled across the bed, not in grace but in comfort, as though every bone in her body had melted into the mattress. The soft hum of birds outside was too far away to stir her; they sounded like background music meant only to lull her deeper.
Her eyelids were half-closed, heavy yet playful, as if testing whether they should commit to sleep or hover in drowsy half-light. She told herself, “Just a minute more…” but her mind was sly, stretching that minute into hours.
Her limbs refused to obey any command—lifting a hand felt like lifting a mountain, turning over was an unnecessary chore. Even thoughts moved like syrup, slow and sticky, flowing without urgency. She thought of unfinished tasks, then smiled lazily at them, as if they were cheeky children she had no energy to scold.
The noon light leaking through the curtains tried to remind her of its presence. But she dismissed it with the stubbornness of a queen: “Not my time, not today.”
The lethargy wasn’t weakness—it was indulgence. A luxury of letting go, of choosing not to fight the world’s ticking clock. She wasn’t merely sleeping; she was savoring the sweetness of being suspended—neither fully awake, nor fully dreaming. A soft rebellion against the rush of life.
And so she stayed, lazy lady of the noon, surrendering herself to that hazy paradise, where even time was too drowsy to matter.
She stirred in her bed, half-dreaming, half-awake. The misty noon outside blurred into night in her mind. Shadows played tricks on her eyelids, and the hum of birds became whispers of unseen companions.
She thought she heard someone—soft, close, speaking in a voice that wasn’t hers. But when she tried to open her eyes, nothing was there. Just the window, the pale curtain, the slow dance of clouds.
“I don’t know who you are,” she murmured into the pillow, “you are just an illusion.”
But the illusion lingered, sitting with her like a quiet guest. It wasn’t a ghost, nor a person. It was the echo of her own drowsy thoughts, shaped into presence. A shadow-self who wanted to talk when the world outside was hushed.
She smiled faintly. Perhaps illusions were companions too. Perhaps they were born only when she let go—when her mind loosened its grip on reason, when she surrendered to lethargy.

The lazy lady and her illusion lay side by side, neither demanding, neither explaining. Just drifting together in that stillness where time was muffled, where noon could pretend to be night, and where illusions felt as real as flesh.
And so she decided not to chase the truth of it. Illusion or not, it was hers—born from her haze, her lethargy, her refusal to rise.
She turned, sighed, and slipped back into sleep, taking the illusion with her.
When at last her lashes lifted, the room was a little brighter. The mist outside had thinned, and the birds had gone silent, leaving behind a hush that felt almost sacred.
For a moment, she wondered—was it still noon, or had the world stolen away into another time? She reached for the illusion that had kept her company in her slumber, but it was gone, dissolved into the thin air of waking.
Only her own breath lingered, steady, warm against her skin. The pillow smelled faintly of dreams—of whispers she couldn’t quite recall, of company that had never truly been.
A tiny ache tugged at her heart. She wanted to ask aloud, “Where did you go? Were you real?” But her lips stayed still, curved only in a sleepy smile.
She rose a little, then fell back, letting the lethargy claim her once again. Why hurry? she thought. The world outside would not change without her. Illusions, she knew, would return if she closed her eyes again.
And so she did. This time, she embraced them willingly, slipping into a space where noon and night, dream and reality, were one and the same—and she, the lazy lady, ruled them both.
The lazy lady stirred once more, caught in that fragile veil between waking and sleep. The light had shifted—sometimes it was noon, sometimes it was dusk, sometimes it was neither at all.
And always, when she half-opened her eyes, there was the illusion.
One day it was a shadow at her window, watching her breathe. Another day, it was a soft whisper curling inside her ear, promising rest. Sometimes it was a hand brushing her hair, though when she reached out, she felt only the pillow’s edge.
Every waking carried her into a different fragment of reality. Was she still dreaming? Was she awake? The illusion never answered, only changed its shape and returned, faithful as her own heartbeat.
At times, she grew curious—leaning toward it, asking questions. But the answers dissolved, like mist on her skin. Other times, she grew stubborn—insisting she would rise, break free, and claim the day. Yet the bed, the haze, and the sweet pull of lethargy always won, dragging her back into the cycle.
It was no prison. It was no freedom either. It was a kingdom without edges, where time repeated itself, noon became night, night became noon, and illusions became her only companions.
And perhaps, she thought lazily, that was enough. To drift forever in a world where reality was optional, and dreams were loyal.
The lazy lady closed her eyes again. The cycle began anew.
This time, when the lazy lady woke, the room was unmistakably bright. The clouds had thinned, and the noon sun pressed through the curtains with golden persistence. She stretched, slow and reluctant, convinced she had returned to reality.
But then—something stirred.
At the corner of her bed sat a figure, faint but present, as if the haze of dreams had condensed into flesh. Not shadow, not whisper—something in between. Its eyes glimmered with the same softness that had lulled her in sleep.
She froze. Illusions did not belong here, in the realm of ticking clocks and real sunlight. Yet here it was, tilting its head, watching her with patience.
“You called me illusion,” it said, though its lips barely moved. “But if you kept me long enough in your heart, why shouldn’t I step across?”
Her breath caught. She tried to sit up, but her body was still heavy, pinned between lethargy and disbelief.

The figure leaned closer, brushing her tangled hair with a hand she could feel this time—warm, deliberate, undeniable.
Reality bent, folded itself around her bed. Was she still dreaming? Was the world outside still waiting? She didn’t know anymore. Perhaps she didn’t care.
For the first time, she welcomed the thought: her illusion had broken free of dreams, and in doing so, had chosen to belong to her waking world.
And so the lazy lady smiled, sinking once again—not into sleep, but into a reality rewritten by her own haze.