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Philiac

I dozed off as I watched the fire die.
This is the world—is has a beginning and an end, just like every fairytale, every journey, ever dream, every nightmare . . .
I have seen thousands of faces. Some smiling, some blank, some completely empty, but they still exist. I know a thousand or so by name.
A name. Is a name a symbol of security or simply something we must carry around with us for our entire lives? When you see it written on a piece of paper, does it feel like yours, or does it feel foreign and detached?
Fire; violent and destructive, it can ruin one’s entire life or even take it in a matter of minutes, yet it is often called the greatest invention of mankind. If mankind even invented fire, then how can the forest fire be explained? If fire is neither solid, liquid, nor gas, then what is it? A figment of our imaginations that we have long since convinced ourselves is real? Why are we intrigued yet repelled by its dance, or by its colors?
If so, then we are staring at nothing. Every color in existence does not exist; colors are only the effect of our eyes differentiating wavelengths of light. What is a rainbow, then, but mist?
Why do we fear fire’s pain, when pain is but an illusion? Why do we run from knives and pine for feathers when two things never truly touch? It’s all just particles rebounding off of each other. Is this what we fear? Is this what we love?
The bass line. The snare. What some people refer to as “life.” Only our brains playing a little game with us.
Death. I am made of the same materials as the first living beings on Earth. Nothing ever truly leaves, and nothing fades as long as memories survive.
A memory; how susceptible is it? If the world were created yesterday, could we justify this claim as false? What would our evidence be? Our recollection of a day last week? It’s only a memory; a chemical. It cannot be proven, and it proves nothing.
Why do we feel the need to be sure of something that may never have happened?
Are we constantly falling towards the Sun?
Is existence truth or trickery?
I awoke to nothing but a cold pile of ashes.




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