A World of False Dreams

It feels alien. 
It feels fictional. 
I’m sitting in class, writing an
essay
about a Nobel Prize speech,
and thinking about the ugly truth that
my grandmother
is going to die.  
We visited her in the morning
to say goodbye
and somehow
I’m sitting in class,
wondering how I’m not crying. 
A priest came to her room
in the white, hospital-like
home
she’s living in. 
It makes it feel
real. 
But I don’t want it to be real. 
I didn’t splash my face with cold water
in the morning
like I usually do. 
It’s because I didn’t want to wake up—
I wanted to stay in a world of dreams
where she was still 
there. 
I want to stay there.
I want to stay in an unconscious
world of false dreams.