I could either count the moments of my life in cigarette butts or the piles of ashes I allow to grow in the tray that stands vigil atop my nightstand. I'm not as messy as my room likes to say I am. Day to day I enclose myself within these four walls and upon these walls I'm surrounded by what are now familiar words, phrases, faces. Of all the shit I have, I recently wondered: at what point had I made the conscious decisions of what is wall worthy and what is not? Often I imagine what these things would say about me, about my daily habits, about the many conversations that have happened right here where I sit. Do they like the music I play? The shows I watch? The rapid sound of my typing as I spit my brain out onto this digital page, does it annoy them?
Have you ever Google search your name to see if someone out there is living a life parallel and identical to your very own? The only proof that I have ever lived lies in pictures that maintain a small percentage of the allotted internet bandwidth and those captured instances may not even be solely mine. Whether or not I leave my room today, the world will go on with or without me. So what are you doing with your time?
I'll leave you with this:
"Doubt is uncomfortable. Certainty is ridiculous."-Voltaire
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