• It seems that I have been sick of late. I hadn’t realized it, until tonight. I spent most of the afternoon hours in a glorious haze, where I stared at the blaring TV screen in a sort of drunk stupor. It wasn’t until everything came flooding to me that I realized how feverish I had been. Not just in the past 48 hours of my sickness, no. But my entire life.
    So it would come to me, at the peak of my fever. A significant detach from reality, along with a considerable nausea that I can’t seem to cure. Even as I write this, the paper seems to pitch back and forth of its own accord. Nonetheless, I am steadier then I have been my whole life. This detachment from my reality has only increased my focus, for it seems that as I fall further and further away from the normal affairs of my life, I can see them in greater detail. It’s as if I am looking at picture made completely of small dots. Up close, all you can see is the tiny pixels upon the paper, but as you step back you can see the single image as it is.
    But this clarification is not a satisfying one. Seeing my life from this perspective troubles me greatly, for how wrong I’ve been! I’ve put so much in store for this life; and yet as I sit here writing, it all seems as real as a message imprinted on sand. So easily can it be wiped away by the wind, or the water. It only leads me to question what I believe to be true. I am thinking; that must mean I exist. But what of everything else?
    How surreal it seems! Even my very hands, as they write these words, seem to belong to someone else. My mind and my body seem to exist as two separate entities, independently working towards two different goals. While my body strives to contain my thoughts, my mind works to gain freedom from its fleshy captor. And what a battle! It leaves my blood churning, and the excitement has me clenching my hands and clawing at my own palms!
    Even through all this, my mind is at ease. As it fights to gain its freedom, it is calm, almost passive. Perhaps through in my sickness, I have accepted that everything I know to be true is not real. My family, my job, my school, and even my own body do not exist, not in the material sense. As such, I have accepted my own mortality as what it is. Not as pain, not as sadness or mourning, but as disillusionment from this fever dream I call life. My only fear now is that when this sickness passes, so too will my conviction. In its absence, reality will resume its hold on me. But it seems that for now, I am a universal nihilist, and nothing is true.