If You Have Ghosts
Have you ever wondered if you were alive? Or if you were even real at all?
Sometimes I'm not even sure how long I've been alive. It feels as if I've been here forever, longer than the 26 years that my birth certificate shows. I look at the slip of paper and it all feels to be a lie. That can't be my date of birth. My birthday doesn't feel like my birthday. It's just another day. I can't remember being propelled into this plane of existence. Sometimes I wonder if I was really born or if my consciousness was created from the air and has dwelled here cycling through periods of hibernation and activity. It sometimes feels as if I've lived this life before. Then I fall into a deep state of slumber to awake and dread familiar paths; I search for different outcomes, new states of being and question the all that surrounds me. And at the end of each cycle of awakening, I perish in my own self-destruction; Embracing death like the arms of a long lost lover. Turning the carnage I've left in my path into poetry as I sink into the comfort of being invisible.
I wonder if I will ever actually die. Spiritually die. Physically, I've come close quite a few times, only to be pulled back into this world Perhaps my consciousness can't ascend beyond this universe and this is just the person suit in which I'm currently hiding. What if I never will be able to experience death as others have and will? What if this monstrous being, it being me, simply moves onto the next meat vehicle once this one has served its purpose or becomes inhabitable? I need to test this. I need to know. I need to reach beyond this state of being once again and drink from the waters of the universe.
I need to know that I am real. How can I prove my own existence to myself? How do I know the answers that my mates give me aren't just answers I've created for myself? How do I know that they're not just a byproduct of my imagination? More importantly, how do I know that Chubbs is real? And that he's not just a figment my mind has created to keep me from perpetual loneliness? I see photos of him and I together, I've touched him, he's touched me, we've embraced one another. Why does it feel like he is nothing more than an illusion at times? An illusion created to torture me with ideas pleasure in every sense of the world and once I've grown completely comfortable will tear him away from me...
What is reality? Is it just a constellation of experiences, information obtained through our senses? The way the mind interprets these series of occurrences and sensations? It's just layering and layering of information. That's all it is. Our own little universes within the bodies we dwell in. And in some instances, our worlds collide with others and we are united by these delicate jelly-like stringy notions. And for these brief moments, we feel a little less alone.
Are my thoughts even real? What even are thoughts? Are they liquid or all they solid? What physical form, if any, do they hold? Why haven't I seen them? Has anybody seen them? Are thoughts just ghosts that hide in the wrinkles of the human brain and in the corners of souls? Are thoughts without actions formless? What really gives them form? Is it the action itself? The act of creation? Do thoughts need a physical manifestation to be considered real? What makes a thought real? Is there even a way to define all of this?
What if nothing I've ever experienced is real? What if the things I've done have just been in my head? What if I've created all these sensations, making my own definitions for feelings of physical things and emotional experiences? What if the ways I know these things to be aren't actually how they are?Or what if everything has just been one giant illusion? A stream of illusions? What if everything that everyone sees, experiences, smells, tastes, touches is a series of illusions? What if they never actually interact with any other beings? What if all of our lives are just in our heads? Perhaps we're not even physically real! We've just assigned these forms and its a sort of mass hallucination?
What if everyone we've ever come into contact with, the good and the bad is nothing more than just created by ourselves? What if none of these things are really happening? What if I'm not actually typing and this is all just going on while my form, if I even have one, sits alone in a darkened room drooling? Do rooms even exist? Or is it just another creation?
Rewinding for a moment here, how do I know which version of myself is real? Which me is the true me? Are they all real? Are none of them real? What even defines them as real? If someone can see these traits does it make it real? Or is there another way to tell? How do I even know the people around me are real? How do I know that they are not just figures of my imagination?
And while we're talking about people, why are there only two biological genders? Or do these aspects of biology only exist in this world, this plane, this universe? What lies beyond what we can see? Is there anything beyond it? Can we even comprehend what there is, if there is anything?
The worst part about all this? I'm not even high. And I'm left with even more questions. How and why do I think myself into these holes? Is it possible to think yourself to death? I've tried to be a bit more social lately. Last weekend I went to the cinema and saw the new IT film and this weekend I'm going a bit of travel to go out with some people who've invited me out. Yes, I'm actually being social. Should I do a blog on IT? So many people have and it feels just all worn out. I will do one on my weekend adventure for this upcoming week though!
LINKS
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anjathesickboy/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/darkdreamingdan
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/darkdreamingdaniel/
Sometimes I'm not even sure how long I've been alive. It feels as if I've been here forever, longer than the 26 years that my birth certificate shows. I look at the slip of paper and it all feels to be a lie. That can't be my date of birth. My birthday doesn't feel like my birthday. It's just another day. I can't remember being propelled into this plane of existence. Sometimes I wonder if I was really born or if my consciousness was created from the air and has dwelled here cycling through periods of hibernation and activity. It sometimes feels as if I've lived this life before. Then I fall into a deep state of slumber to awake and dread familiar paths; I search for different outcomes, new states of being and question the all that surrounds me. And at the end of each cycle of awakening, I perish in my own self-destruction; Embracing death like the arms of a long lost lover. Turning the carnage I've left in my path into poetry as I sink into the comfort of being invisible.
I wonder if I will ever actually die. Spiritually die. Physically, I've come close quite a few times, only to be pulled back into this world Perhaps my consciousness can't ascend beyond this universe and this is just the person suit in which I'm currently hiding. What if I never will be able to experience death as others have and will? What if this monstrous being, it being me, simply moves onto the next meat vehicle once this one has served its purpose or becomes inhabitable? I need to test this. I need to know. I need to reach beyond this state of being once again and drink from the waters of the universe.
I need to know that I am real. How can I prove my own existence to myself? How do I know the answers that my mates give me aren't just answers I've created for myself? How do I know that they're not just a byproduct of my imagination? More importantly, how do I know that Chubbs is real? And that he's not just a figment my mind has created to keep me from perpetual loneliness? I see photos of him and I together, I've touched him, he's touched me, we've embraced one another. Why does it feel like he is nothing more than an illusion at times? An illusion created to torture me with ideas pleasure in every sense of the world and once I've grown completely comfortable will tear him away from me...
What is reality? Is it just a constellation of experiences, information obtained through our senses? The way the mind interprets these series of occurrences and sensations? It's just layering and layering of information. That's all it is. Our own little universes within the bodies we dwell in. And in some instances, our worlds collide with others and we are united by these delicate jelly-like stringy notions. And for these brief moments, we feel a little less alone.
Are my thoughts even real? What even are thoughts? Are they liquid or all they solid? What physical form, if any, do they hold? Why haven't I seen them? Has anybody seen them? Are thoughts just ghosts that hide in the wrinkles of the human brain and in the corners of souls? Are thoughts without actions formless? What really gives them form? Is it the action itself? The act of creation? Do thoughts need a physical manifestation to be considered real? What makes a thought real? Is there even a way to define all of this?
What if nothing I've ever experienced is real? What if the things I've done have just been in my head? What if I've created all these sensations, making my own definitions for feelings of physical things and emotional experiences? What if the ways I know these things to be aren't actually how they are?Or what if everything has just been one giant illusion? A stream of illusions? What if everything that everyone sees, experiences, smells, tastes, touches is a series of illusions? What if they never actually interact with any other beings? What if all of our lives are just in our heads? Perhaps we're not even physically real! We've just assigned these forms and its a sort of mass hallucination?
What if everyone we've ever come into contact with, the good and the bad is nothing more than just created by ourselves? What if none of these things are really happening? What if I'm not actually typing and this is all just going on while my form, if I even have one, sits alone in a darkened room drooling? Do rooms even exist? Or is it just another creation?
Rewinding for a moment here, how do I know which version of myself is real? Which me is the true me? Are they all real? Are none of them real? What even defines them as real? If someone can see these traits does it make it real? Or is there another way to tell? How do I even know the people around me are real? How do I know that they are not just figures of my imagination?
And while we're talking about people, why are there only two biological genders? Or do these aspects of biology only exist in this world, this plane, this universe? What lies beyond what we can see? Is there anything beyond it? Can we even comprehend what there is, if there is anything?
The worst part about all this? I'm not even high. And I'm left with even more questions. How and why do I think myself into these holes? Is it possible to think yourself to death? I've tried to be a bit more social lately. Last weekend I went to the cinema and saw the new IT film and this weekend I'm going a bit of travel to go out with some people who've invited me out. Yes, I'm actually being social. Should I do a blog on IT? So many people have and it feels just all worn out. I will do one on my weekend adventure for this upcoming week though!
LINKS
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anjathesickboy/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/darkdreamingdan
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/darkdreamingdaniel/
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