You are awake. You know this because you were just dreaming, and although you thought you were awake then, it is obvious now that you were just asleep. Your vision is clear, not hazy, and every second is as long as the rest. There is continuity, one moment flowing into the next one. You can just observe, not having to create. Your dreams are so vivid, and so unreal.
Something touches your head, startling you. You try to grab it, that brittle, dry leaf. It crumbles. You will not notice the faint burgundy particles it left in your hair until much later. Above you is a dense forest made of branches. You are leaning against a tree. A rising sun is shining on your skin. It feels soft, softer than usual.
An owl in the distance calls out. There is no wind, nobody to move whispers through the grass. Even the leaf breaking apart was without noise. The drumming of your thoughts fighting for your attention drowned it all out, but the owl has stilled you. You hear now the nothingness, its silence. This is not a place you know. Not yet, anyway.
This is my first memory of you. I know where you went, but I do not know who you are. I see the fields through your eyes, experience the sound through your ears, feel the grass between your fingers. I can see your hands, and the meticulous way you tie your shoelaces. I can feel the slight strain in your neck from leaning to the left for too long. I cannot see your face, but I know it is you. I know this because this memory, the one I first remembered a decade ago, is no less clear, no less immaculate. At the same time, my own life has been fading away. I am searching for you, and for the answer to this.
Why are you replacing me?