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I walk
feeling alone in the world. Everyone is here but at the same time they're not. I feel empty. Is anything what it appears? Am I the
only one
here? Am I the only on that sees? Where is everyone's eyes?
Why
don't they see what I see? Did they close their eyes to the place
I see
and feel?
I feel completely hollow. I feel as unreal as the
perceived
objects around me. This body I occupy seems foreign to me.
It's as
though I am borrowing it for some undefined reason. I know the
feeling
will pass, but then will my eyes be closed? The pressure at the
base of
my head is a chilling reminder of death, the few moments of
awareness
before I pass to the other side. Perhaps this pressure opens
my eyes.
Perhaps it isn't really there. Perhaps this feeling isn't
real.
I
touch things around me to sort of verify they are really
there.
Even though I can physically feel them my mind perceives that
they
truly aren't there. If they aren't there, why can I touch them.
I feel
tired and weak. How my body moves to write is strange to me. Am
I really
moving my body, or am I just a spectator that is observing
this
body moving?
The page
turns, and the sound of the paper moving is interesting. The
sound of
this reality is interesting. I know these sounds exist, but
why do
they now sound hollow? The walls around me are the same as ones
from my
everyday memory of this place, but they somehow look like
cardboard.
Like one gentle push would make them all collapse. It's no
really
that they look different, but somehow my mind tells me they are
cardboard,
despite their appearance. I feel air blow across my feet. I
seem
larger than normal. My head is so quiet. Why can't I hear all my
thoughts.
Perhaps the thoughts of this feeling is louder than my
regular
thoughts. The world seems so quiet. Am I really the only one
here?
How can I be the only one? If I am the only one here then how
can I
truly learn from these figures that appear the same as me? If
they
can't see what I see, then how can they teach me about the things
that
surround me? If I can't learn about this place then I am puzzled
as to
why I am here. Am I here to play as a pawn in something's sick
game?
How can I become a true player of this game?
The page
turns again. I don't feel like writing any more. Rather I
feel as
though I should contemplate my existence in the quiet ordered
hollowness
of my mind. Perhaps stimulating my senses will jolt me back
to
myself. But once back how can I handle things knowing my eyes are
again
closed. Although I hate this feeling, in some way I am glad that
I get to
see the world with open eyes. I will miss this feeling as it
starts
to pass, and will again hate it. Perhaps writing this down will
help me
remember more clearly what I can see as this person. Perhaps
in time
I will understand what this feeling is. Perhaps this feeling
is a way
for me to learn the hidden truths of this reality. Perhaps I
will
never know.
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