Jared

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’treal. 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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