I’m not sure this world is even real anymore;
There’s just too much happening - too much to ignore.
It just can’t be real with all this anguish and strife,
Like a TV Drama that says it’s “true to life”.
I find myself sitting, just staring at the wall
Wondering if what it’s made of exists at all…
If I smash my head against the supposed brick
Would I shatter my skull or phase through if I’m quick?
As I pass people on the street I watch their stride;
Is there some pre-set path so objects don’t collide?
I hear the hostility of distant shouting;
Is that ambient noise to stop me from doubting?
I see a scuffle between angry, shaggy youth;
Is this a distraction for me to miss the truth?
Even encounters with friends feel like they’re scripted;
Am I hacking dialogue that was encrypted?
I put out the bins just before I go to bed
And the street light feels like they are stage lights instead.
I lay down to sleep and am paranoid/aware
Of the cameras that could be placed anywhere.
Even as I write this poem it feels unreal
Like typing is a projection of how I feel
And since you are reading do please answer me this:
How can you be so certain that YOU even exist?