This life of mine, words following one another, sentences breathing life into this hollow consciousness, a bubble that slowly grows into existence, fills up with air, breathes oxygen and thinks, perceives reality through this observant form that takes place within this concept of self. Slowly these syllables weave a web of thoughts that gradually become aware of themselves, start forming concepts within and turning towards itself.
What am "I" really?
Just a pile of words, lies, mostly, petrified in the face of any possibility I might have. Too afraid to move, too afraid to snuff it out. Stuck. Lifeless, living, but lifeless, bones, structures, stuck. Is my suffering real if I don't exist to perceive it? If I am not real, just structures of words, do I really suffer in the first place?
I am just pain, paining words that subside and coil around their own aching heart. My existence is just a matter of perspective. I am not real as far as reality consists of observable sensory input, but I , at this very moment, am real inside your head.
I am a concept, not a person, not a soul, not a mind, I am more "you", than I am "I".
I am a bubble that grows and grows, with each word more convincing, more real, until...