Sometimes when I leave a room, I have a hard time imagining the space still exists when I’m not there. Like today, I’m trying to imagine my apartment while I sit here at work. I was home sick for a few days, lost in a cocoon of IFC film marathons and wheat toast with Nutella. When I closed my front door and made my way to my car early this morning, I had this urge to run back inside, as if the damp air of the outside world was too much for my once overly-blanketed skin. Now that I’ve left my place and entered another place, I feel as if this current place is the only reality there is. My apartment is now something of the past, and I’m slightly concerned it might not be there when I try to return this evening.
Philosophy was one of my favorite courses in college. I loved reading about other people’s tripped out, mind melting views on the world. I imagined them in white robes stoically sitting under towering oak trees, heads resting in one hand, pondering the validity of existence.
Today my thoughts are evolving into questioning whether I’m really real. Am I here? Can others see me? Maybe I’m just the dream of a lazy, napping house cat. I wish I was under a tree wearing a white robe. I could be scribbling all of this philosophical neurosis down with a feather pen in a delicate, yellowing, leather-bound journal. But instead I’m sitting at a desk, punching my jumbled ideas onto this website. Which maybe is more appropriate after all. I’m doubting my reality in a forum that is virtual.
All of this heady shit makes me want to lie down and take a nap. Here’s hoping my bed is still somewhere out there and hasn’t vanished into an existential pocket of neverness.