I am something. Often, I don’t exactly know what. Nevertheless, I remind myself almost every day that I am real, that I exist. Sometimes, though, it’s not a reminder, but a coercement into thought. I have to convince myself that I exist, rather than remind myself that I do.
When I step aside from thinking about what I am, I step back into the thoughts I have as to why I exist, and how. Am I simply a bundle of condensed cells, existing only to convert Oxygen into Carbon Dioxide? Or am I something more? Perhaps a shell for a human soul - a tangled mess of psychology, philosophy, and theory? Is there truly a purpose to human existence, or are we here only as a means to make use of the passing time?
What is real, anyways? Is anything real? Do people actually exist, or do we all just play a part in the same movie? Is the body a shell for a soul, or does the body create the soul? Are we or are we not the physical beings that we present ourselves as? What in this world really matters?
People make a mark. A carving in a tree, painting on a canvas, the lives all around us that are influenced based on what we do. We change lives. For better or worse is completely our decision. Whether or not something or someone is real is beyond the purpose of life. We are what we believe ourselves to be, and it doesn’t really matter what. A body is temporary; and I say that to convey the truth: it doesn’t matter what a person’s body looks like.
We don’t remember a body. We remember the soul that inhabited that body. Shouldn't that be enough?