Who are you really, and where did you come from? Do you really exist, you sometimes wonder. Sometimes it seems you are the subject, and, at the same confluence of imagined time, you are also the observer. What are you observing but yourself? If you make motions, and you observe yourself, are you then also a messenger? Surely you spin tales. They may be all made-up. Can it be that you are a work of your own imagination, as if you are a rag doll?
There is some Truth in this idea, for life on Earth is make-believe. Life is believed in, yet it is made up. None of this that occupies you on Earth is real. How can the so real-seeming not be true? When you stub your toe, it hurts. Yet, you wonder, do you really have a leg to stand on on Earth?
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