Who am I, what am I doing; I don't know. I just feel that what is now will not last.
No matter in which city, which crowd, I can pick out my alter ego. That self is indeed me. Because like me always, it's thinking about a world in which it doesn't exist. It is me, standing there in a bustling but empty scene and thinking about the world.
It's nobody, that faceless person with no home or place to go. Just silently standing on any street corner. Eyes looking solely inward. I can only address these words to myself.
When my words are gone and the light I saw fades, the world ceases to exist, save the images still on my retina. But if so, does the light that creates shadow or the sound that creates music truly exist? Is it real, the illusion of time as shown by the hands of a clock or the course of the sun?
As the song goes, "Life's easy with your eyes closed." The light that has been burned into my retina underpins my memory, my very existence. I stand motionless on the street corner, looking at light that cannot be seen, listening to music that has no sound.
There is nothing that I know. Whether what I remember was real or fantasy. The only certainty is that perfection, and a lasting one at that, is nowhere to be found. The shadow reflected on the mirror and window glass keeps changing shape and brightness, only to eventually disappear.
I am not here, nor on any street corner. I am no one, and anyone. I keep asking, in the bottom of the unseen light and unheard sound. Does the world exist? Do I exist? And if I exist, what do I see and what do I hear?