Quantum Hands

For as long as I can remember I have been having a vision. Not always, not every night, but recurring throughout my life. The vision always appears at the crepuscular boundary between waking and sleep, when I settle down in my bed and prepare to leave the day behind. As I sink into sleep, first I let go of my body. I close my eyes, I lie still, relinquish control of my muscles, and wait for my hearing to fade and stop picking up environment sounds.

At one point, only my core consciousness remains. No longer awake, not quite asleep. I am not yet dreaming. It is here that my quantum hands materialise. I suddenly feel a tautness in my hands and lower arms. It is as if they swell to massive proportions, while at the same time, my bones shrink down to the smallest size possible without breaking under the strain. For a measureless period of time, my phantom limbs are dominated by this paradoxical tension. It completely absorbs my self-experience, while my surroundings — no longer directly perceived, but imagined — are reduced to a desert under a clear purple sky; void of stars and life. Both occupy the whole of my experience at the same time; I am reduced to a quantum state of an infinitely shrinking/expanding pair of hands, filling the whole or nothing at all of a boundless primordial gap.

The tension holds until slowly all perceptions fade away and I fall into sleep, dreamless or not.