Some mornings I wake up thoroughly, warmly and safely enclosed in my comforter. Yet, as my consciousness gradually emerges from its slumber, it tears the fabric of reality.

Or so it feels, at least.

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What tears is my perception of the contact between my body and the fabric around me. A void appears, and exponentially increases.

The volume of the space where my body should be enclosed becomes larger, first larger than my room, then larger than the house, and seems to never stop growing.

Simultaneously the volumne of the space taken by my body starts shrinking, first to the size of a child, then to microscopic proportions.

The nothingness in-between grows doubly faster and is properly frightening. This fear of disappearing, narrowed into the void, can jolt me out of sleep with a cold sweat.

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As I have become more experienced with controlling the process of waking up, towards gaining the ability of lucid dreams, I have gained the ability to control my fall into the void: I can now control the rate of expansion of this nothingness. The times when it turns into a nightmare have become fewer and further in between as I have grown older.

Instead, I am often left to wonder, in the morning, what is the meaning of space; as my worm-sized body is contemplating, through the vacuum of an unexpected space, the cave formed by my bed sheets.