Am I a man who just awoke from a dream that I was a butterfly, or a butterfly who has not yet awoken from a dream that he is man?

Expired. 
I lay on my bed staring at the sunlight that slipped through my window shades. The wind mingled with the billowing curtains and the clock ticked obnoxiously loud in my ears. How steady and slow time plodded at the moment, yet soon night would come. today would be yesterday, and tomorrow would be today—in an instant. We have so much, yet so little in the world. 
And I felt expired. 

But water blinks on contact and chaotically explodes in jet black—a loud and bold statement. Slow motion catches the pigment in an instant, and the black seeps slowly deeper down leaving trails of color in answer. Ink dances. It twirls. It swirls. From dark streams diffusing into wispy clouds, ink floats ever so gracefully in water. 
In its own world, it is beautiful.