Hollowing out in true reality, the matter of existence and certainty are the true ravels in this world. Accounting each day before us as we live only in the moments of now, the past only perception and future never perceived. Can we stand firmly to which we know? Are we really standing at all, and where we stand, is it even real?
I light a cigarette, as I stand at the deck's edge, one step from the tan seaweed covered sand. The sky was just a few shades brighter then the dark miserable gray of the sea. The weather was slightly cold, and the strong beach breeze didn't carry any help. I coughed each time the wind blew my cigarette's smoke into my face, and decided to bud it out; it really wasn't helping my contemplative state.
This wasn't the first time I didn't know where I was, not exactly, that is. Like what I remember, and where I am, don't match up. Yes, I remember, but I, myself, do not remember. Like events that happen aren't with participation of me, even though I'm there. How could that make sense? I know it doesn't, but that's exactly how it is.
Biting my lip, I decide to relight my started cigarette. Who needs to think this much, anyways? I sneeze a little at the smoke, but enjoy in it's warming scent. I step off the deck, and walk along the sand, each foot sinking a little with each forward pace.
Right now, am I here? Right now, everything around me, is it real? I see it, I feel it, I smell it… but is it real?
Stumbling upon the uneven sands, I trip letting myself fall. I know I feel the cold dampness of the ground.. But I don't.
If reality is all upon how you perceive it, then if you don't perceive it, is nothing real?
I roll over to lye my upon my back. In my fall I ended my embering cigarette's life prematurely, and decide to light another. I draped my arm over my eyes, and inhaled the sweet flavored smoke. Buried in the darkness behind my eyes, I listened to the silence that only my mind could create.
Now this was real.
I light a cigarette, as I stand at the deck's edge, one step from the tan seaweed covered sand. The sky was just a few shades brighter then the dark miserable gray of the sea. The weather was slightly cold, and the strong beach breeze didn't carry any help. I coughed each time the wind blew my cigarette's smoke into my face, and decided to bud it out; it really wasn't helping my contemplative state.
This wasn't the first time I didn't know where I was, not exactly, that is. Like what I remember, and where I am, don't match up. Yes, I remember, but I, myself, do not remember. Like events that happen aren't with participation of me, even though I'm there. How could that make sense? I know it doesn't, but that's exactly how it is.
Biting my lip, I decide to relight my started cigarette. Who needs to think this much, anyways? I sneeze a little at the smoke, but enjoy in it's warming scent. I step off the deck, and walk along the sand, each foot sinking a little with each forward pace.
Right now, am I here? Right now, everything around me, is it real? I see it, I feel it, I smell it… but is it real?
Stumbling upon the uneven sands, I trip letting myself fall. I know I feel the cold dampness of the ground.. But I don't.
If reality is all upon how you perceive it, then if you don't perceive it, is nothing real?
I roll over to lye my upon my back. In my fall I ended my embering cigarette's life prematurely, and decide to light another. I draped my arm over my eyes, and inhaled the sweet flavored smoke. Buried in the darkness behind my eyes, I listened to the silence that only my mind could create.
Now this was real.
1 comment:
There are no facts, only interpretations. Reality is the collective agreement of these interpretations. Whats real and isn't real isn't what is important... after all, reality leaves a lot to the imagination.
What we call reality is a convenient arrangement society has concocted to make life easier and actually livable.
Maybe its a lie, but if so it's a lie we all believe, or one we pretend to; a lie we become a part of. In the end, what might start as a lie, becomes the truth; or as indistinguishable from the truth as any lie believed can be.
I think things are never as good as one can imagine them. And perhaps it's because somehow, what we imagine can never be true enough, existing in a reality that's fundamentally a lie we all believe. Its only a concept then.
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