blip

I am the thing, looking at the thing, not knowing that I am the thing.

We’re born. We die. Some stuff happens in the middle.

What does it mean? What am I for?

It probably means nothing. I’ve seen more evidence against free will than for it.

So row, row, row, your boat.

I observe. I interpret. I attribute meaning.

I love this life, and I will miss it… Someday… Well, I won’t miss it at all, will I? I’ll be dead.

My life is a figment anyway. I’m a chimera that believes itself solid. I perceive myself distinct, but I is an illusion of the illusion. I am not an illusion, but I am not fully realized either. Part of it all and separate from it all. To live is to perceive, and to perceive it to have perspective.

I contradict myself as I describe because paradox is the framework of the universe. The illusion would collapse under the weight of consistency.

I am the thing, looking at the thing, not knowing that I am the thing.

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