Nothing is real

I stare at this blank page, as I would dissociate on paint drying. The letters blur into what feels exactly like the nonsense I spit up on the colorless white spaces I fill with the dark ink that stain my hands.

Today I feel empty. I feel faceless. I exist purely as a concept conceived in the mind of another, or perceived by eyes that are not my own. I am as tangible as a whisper or as concrete as a thought.

If someone would try to touch me, their hand would move right through, as if I am a digital projection mathematically calculated by computer code. Just a reflection sourced by primary colored LED's that undergo the current of a sea of delocalized ions running around a race track of electric circuits. An automaton incapable of performing the spectrum of human emotion that it was programmed to. Inoperative and malfunctioning.

Perhaps I am just a departed soul that lives in the slightest detachment to the scenes of my material life. The life that feels just beyond my reach, as if the tips of my fingers are grazing the solid surface of the plane of physical reality.

I am absorbed by the dark and vast vacuum in which emptiness does not exist. There is no concept of the expansion of three-dimensionally measured mass. There is no gravitational pull towards a direction that cannot be observed, because all units of measurement are negligible in the state of oblivion.

I wish to buy into the concept of existing as a hologram in a simulation created by some apathetic entity that wanted to walk around with a feather in its hat. Some rudimentary being fed by adulation in an extraterrestrial society of competitive intellectuals. So we exist as an experiment to be observed by a panel of judges within a competition of keen innovation.

Would that not change my perspective on the savagery of this existence? Living in a world governed by overly controlling primates that have experienced the pleasure of testosterone secretion when put in positions of power which allow them to exert authority. Neurochemically, that doesn't seem very evolved of us, but if it's just a result of a prompt designed by some advanced creature that plays with our universe, as one would play with puppets, it does not seem so animalistic after all.

I choose to refrain from further entertaining these thoughts of non-existence.

I would like to live as a leaf, that drinks the sunshine and exhales over the sweet seeking lips of life. How beautiful it can be to live in such magnificent and thoughtless simplicity, yet be more valuable than anything desire can fathom. A leaf that just flutters and sways into the embrace of the waltzing breeze, before it takes gentle flight, tumbling, spinning and meandering it's way to the surface of the earth. The leaf now peacefully rests as its edges curl and color fades, without an anxious demand to outlive inevitable expiration. It just humbly ceases its claim to space in this domain.

By now the paint has dried, but I have failed to notice. The color is identical to the previous shade and there was no sincere reason for it, other than creating an illusion of rehabilitation.