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You are reading these words, and these words, now these words.

And now you are reading the second line. Or are you? Surely you think you are.

Which means you think you have a brain which is receiving signals from your eyes, and that this brain of yours is functioning, running properly, all cylinders humming. One might even claim, soberly.

But that's the next question -- how do you know you're sober? How can you be sure you aren't so hopped up on something right now that you simply think you're sober? That this is your correct plane of existence, not one so much higher that you need to hop-poppity-bonk your own consciousness to descend to its current level. How can you be sure you didn't take something designed to have exactly that intended effect.

The question of whether everything we perceive is simply an illusion is a well-trod one in philosophy and fiction alike, but most often it is framed as an imposition from without, as a trick being played on one mind by another. But it could just as well be something we've decided to do to ourselves, or even to a part, but not the whole of ourselves.

You could right now be sitting back watching you read these words, amused by your own non-realization that you are doing this sitting back and watching.

And, possibly oddest of all, you might not be reading these words at all.

You might be writing them.



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IRON X

If we was doing it to ourselves, this ill(del)usion, this simulacra of life and sensation, what consciousness was we escaping? Was it deliberate, accidental, enforced...?

One of the few things we can know, truly know through reason alone is that I Am. Not so sure about you - you might be. You might not. Reason doesn't go that far. But I know that I am because there is a me to think. Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am, I think.

I might be me.

I might be living in a dream state imposed by an external consciousness, in which case there is a you. Maybe not you, but someone. A Not Me.

I might be a figment of my own imagination, in which case you are me. Not you. So you are my fault. I can blame me for your mistakes.

Why did I create this imaginary world? Was the world I was in very boring? Or very dangerous? Am I asleep? Do I want to wake up?

If I am a figment of my own imagination, creating this existence from inside my mind, I am god. I make the stars and the capybaras and the odd socks. Or at least I make the idea of stars and capybaras and odd socks. Why did I make fridge magnets in the shape of American states, though? I move in mysterious ways. I think.

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