Prompt: beyond illusion

What lies beyond illusion? What color are lawns on this side of the fence, anyway? And if clothes make the man, who is this tailor? And how is it that everyone can write so fast in this group? While I struggle to pluck each word from the orbits whirling in my imagination, as I grapple with the perfecting of a phrase, a simple subject, verb object construction, everyone around the coffee table is scribbling madly away, tapping merrily on keyboards. I alone am bumbling, stumbling, groping to say something coherent, having given up on profound. Writing always seems to drag me beyond illusion and plunk me, unceremoniously in the here and the now.