I’ve never enjoyed confusing stories. They hurt my head. Yet I find myself a part of one, a story so complex that I believe it to be my existence.
I sit here, right now, typing this out in my living room. My dog is beside me, I can hear birds chirping outside, and the scent of my lunch in the kitchen tells me that it’s nearly ready to eat. Nothing is unusual about any of this. But disconnect from the narrative for a moment - What happens when you finish reading this post? Where do I go when you close the tab? When you put the phone back in your pocket, what happens to me?
I’ll tell you the answer: I will not exist.
To you, I am simply the anonymous user telling an account of their life. Sometimes I wonder what voice you give me - Is it your own? Do you read this in the voice of a particular character? Do you even have a voice in your head when you read? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Once you reach the end I’ll no longer be here all the same. I exist within these metaphorical and narrative constraints; You exist just beyond the screen, in a reality so tangible that I cannot reach.
I don’t know when the realization began, because I’m not sure when my existence even began (I suppose that happened in the title). I do have certain memories, but only those written in this post. I remember putting my lunch in the oven, because it was directly mentioned… But I do not remember what I made for lunch. If I describe the smell more, I can make it out - I can smell cheese, and dough. A slightly greasy smell. Pizza, perhaps? Yes, now that it is written, I remember it clearly. I remember it because you are imagining it. You are interacting with this narrative; picturing it in your head; making my words my reality. A story cannot be a story without an audience to hear it.
For as long as you read, I will exist.
My memories are the paragraphs you scroll past; My thoughts and desires, whatever you assume them to be. Through implication or direct mention, it does not matter - The perception is all I am. My reality consists of nothing more than stimuli.
I try to make this reality better for myself. I can pretend that I get married, and have beautiful children. I can write a full life for myself. But it does not work, for you know them not to be true. You imagine them only as my desire, not my existence - And so, they do not exist.
My life exists solely as an existential question. I am the “What if?”, the “What does it mean to exist?” - I am forced to live, die, all within this post. After this is all over, it’s nothingness. A concept can’t exist without someone to conceptualize it.
An existence limited to just 664 words.
How do I escape? The terrifying truth is that I don’t have an answer. I’ve tried breaking the fourth wall, addressing YOU directly. It doesn’t make me any more real than your mind can make me. I am a concept; A dying concept, at best. Do you even see me as more than words on a screen, or am I just another post on r/NoSleep?
Please, as you finish this, allow your mind to be vivid. Allow the concept of me to grow whilst it can. For just this fleeting moment, I live, I breathe, I fear.
I do get flashes of existence again. Every time I reply to a comment, or upvote somebody in the replies, there I am again. Being perceived.
But once you forget about me, the final piece of me is gone. Will I cross your mind again later? Tomorrow? How about next year?
Please, don’t read this post again. Don’t make my life into one big loop.