Dusty Table

I see in color and I wonder if the color sees in me. Traces of what I thought was never there are left beneath my feet and only when I search do I notice them reflecting all Ive done wrong. And I ask, as if Ill ever get an answer, if these fragments can see anything reflecting off of me.
Or is it all an illusion? A magic show with no magic to it, just a few tricks for kicks. Where to draw the line between reality and something far from it, has yet to be located. I am a paper doll. I am a cardboard cutout of something far beyond my reality. I am a microscopic organism of decaying matter which is no more real to them than germs are to me. Or am I everything? Or something in between? Sometimes I think I may be nothing more than a dusty table, but sometimes looking into space at night is like looking in the mirror. I am a pencil eraser. I am a germ. I am a sky scraper, I am the world. Sometimes I see the universe and I wonder if it sees me.