Is our life set in the threshold of realism, as in do we truly exist?
Does anyone definitively know if we are in fact, real?
Remember that proverb, “To know life is to live life,” or is it the other way around?
In any case~
What if we are mere figments of imagination? Conceivably a dream or reflection in the mirror, like an imitation of what might or would have been. If the universe was created by a simple flight of fancy, and if that fancy becomes monotonous, will all life come to its final conclusion and be forever removed from existence?
And if this is true, and I’m genuinely not here, then it’s impossible that you’re reading my little rant and therefore we are delicate fabrications allocated into sections that make up an entire narrative. But not of our own.
So many questions, too few answers. Which in turn leads to the day-old query as to which the answer permanently eludes, “What is the meaning of life.”
Perhaps that’s not really the question. Maybe, just maybe, that is the answer.
There are so many who are broken and adrift who contemplate this lost cause when the cause was never fair-minded, to begin with. Making the what, in this case, irrelevant because if what doesn’t exist and if there’s no logical reasoning in regards to the truth, then such a question serves no purpose. Therefore the only possible conclusion is, “just live.”
Like the proverb suggests, carry on and reject the possibility that one day this life will end at any given moment, terminating all that coincides within the illusion. Even if every last one of us is a fantasy caught in the swiftest of rivers with no hope of escape, life implores us to flourish, gain experience, thrive, and fall madly in love.
And there we have it, problematic actions with countless, frivolous interpretations to come full circle. Therefore the question arises once more and will do so for always. So I ask this, if the question returns back to itself, then isn’t it possible that the answer resides in its own uncertainty?