‘Masses are always breeding grounds of psychic epidemics.’ Only the self exists in reality and all other reality, the external planes of our nature and the beautiful people, are not part of the scene, but part of the maya, representations of our own body, and do not exist independently. I think therefore I am, riding the chakras of my interdimensional transcendental unimaginable astral plane. The far out happening of a day-glo world of primo killer kicks, licks and sticks. The fractal warmth of the incandescent realisation that I am the only one. Everything else, a figment of self-delusional trickery. Am I the only human? As long as the ‘60s never ends and the psilocybin and patchouli never run out, damn right I am.
This is some deep granola to maintain. Metaphysical solipsism is the belief that only oneself is all that exists and that everything else in the world are representations of that self and have no independent existence. All infants start life this way, before coming to the conclusion that life is abject realism mixed with abject boredom and abject karma. The hippies may have been dancing naked in a puddle of mud, iridescent bandanna adorning a head full of unkempt shaggy hair, as the anchors of solipsism, bordering on the hallucination of a non-corporeal dream-state. But this is an ever-present in the brainscape of many.
Many of us suffer the paranoia that something strange and sinister is going on. That we are surrounded by irreality, that everything we touch, eat, taste and experience, is nothing but artificial chicanery. It’s common. Like the urge to jump from high places. Or that no one remembers being born. No one truly knows their true parentage. We believe everything. Every test. Every result. Everything we see. We believe. But how can one know? Sure, take a DNA test. That’s mum. But who did the test? How do we know they aren’t lying? How do we know who they work for aren’t part of a cover-up? And their boss, and their boss, and so on. Delusional paranoia? Maybe. But not a single one of you can prove any of what you’ve just read is a delusion. There is just as much evidence proving it as there is disproving it. That is, not a single bit. There are moments in all our lives when we feel like this. And who’s to say these moments aren’t a realisation of the truth? That we’re not real.
Déjà vu. Falling in sleep and waking up. Strange dreams that feel real. Wanting to jump off a bridge. Not remembering anything and acknowledging everything when we can’t prove anything. Experiences that we can’t remember if they were real or not. No two people’s experience of life is the same. Blue for others is a different blue than it is for you. What is real? How do we know what is ‘real’ is ‘real’ and not a fabrication to hide a lie?
I am the only human. Everything in my world is fake. Ergo, I am the measure of all things. Everything I do in my life is within myself. I cannot prove that all I experience is more than just a thought in my head. But even if this is true, I argue that it doesn’t matter. Because everything is fine, dandy and tickety-boo. And if it isn’t, then wonderful. Because everything is fine, dandy and tickety-boo. It simply doesn’t matter if I am the only human. I’m alive. In some form or another. And that, for me, is all that matters.
I would ask you, readers, if you are the only human, but if you believe you are the only human, you wouldn’t answer this question because you’d be talking to yourself, therefore, you already know the answer, making asking that question completely pointless.
So I’ll ask this, instead. Are you enjoying your headache?
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The Indelible Life of Me
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