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I exist in your mind. I’m an illusion. An illusion that only you can see. That only you can smell and taste. An illusion that only you can feel. Your breathing is unnecessary, for your blood is already dead. Your spirit is just a thought, a delusion perhaps. Your emotions are fake, as temporary as what you call life. I look at what you call reality, and can only see a game. I look at what you call existence, and wonder how. Is what you call life a pleasure? Is what you call real, solid? Is there real proof of anything? Are there really facts? It could be that your living in a society where what you believe is considered fact. Do you know fact, or do you only think you know fact? Does fact need proof? Is there really proof, or only acceptance of what you think is proof? Does opinion matter? If not, than how is there fact? For all facts were once opinions that eventually became theories and evolved into philosophy. Does anything really exist? Or is what you call life just an illusion as made up as me? Who am I? Well, that’s for you to decide. But then again, do I really exist?

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