There was a man, once, not too long ago. He lived an illusion, one inside another, and another still. There were so many illusions that he couldn’t really tell which was real. Each was a reflection of some real world he could not see – all he could do was act the best he could in each.
Of the mirror worlds, one particular seemed to be the most real to him, and this was only because it was the most painful. But what he only understood at the last moment of his life was that that specific one was the mother of all illusions.
The illusion he most cherished was one he himself fabricated, in rich velvet detail. There he was happy, loved and needed. He was wanted, creative, productive. Problems were solved with little trouble, everything good was plentiful and few were the moments he faced pain. But he knew that world wasn’t real, since it only existed in his mind.
There was another illusion in which he was a traveler, one that stayed little time in one place, because there was too much to learn, to know, to discover. This world was full of surprises and adventures, only that he could manage. He needn’t be needed, nor desired happiness, only sought knowledge – the answers to all his questions. He didn’t worry about problems because he didn’t care for them, nothing could hurt him because he only remembered the good memories, and each new day offered him something memorable, there was little or no time at all to worry about the past’s troubles.
These illusions shared the man’s reality, among others, but he always returned to that specific one that brought him constant pain, the one he thought was the real reality, really. Nothing seemed right, nothing seemed to work for him, nobody cared for him the way he wanted, he wasn’t loved nor understood, only felt pain.
Every waking moment he desired the other illusions to become reality, while he wished freedom from that specific illusion. Time went on, never halting – although there was a certain illusion in which he could control time – it seemed the days of trouble would never end, until he felt necessary to intervene and end those days of pain. He took his life, jumping from a high ledge to become a red spot many, many stories bellow.
But in that last moment, actually only a few meters from the ground, he realized that it had been another illusion, among all – and the only reality was the one he made. Choosing his fate and acting upon it was reality. And he learned this as he saw himself in the painful world falling from a high building; and he saw himself in the happy-loved world falling from a ski slope onto the rocks bellow at a luxurious mountain resort; and also saw himself in the adventurous world falling from a ruptured parachute.
As he fell, he most certainly left the real world to a better place – if that's not just another illusion.