I wake up every morning and have to take a few moments to figure out what is real, and what is dream. Every morning. I wonder if this is the only day I am alive, and all I know is preprogrammed material written by strange Gods that delight in stories about humans. Maybe they made up the whole thing. Humans. Earth. Music.
No. Music is real. That is certain.
Regardless, I wake, and the day begins.
Coffee. First thing. Every day.
Except for the days when it's not available. Which usually means I am doing something different, something new and exotic. So no coffee days are okay.
Write in my journal. My morning pages. My attempt to make some sort of order out of the chaos. And the doors open, my mind wanders and leaps in confusion and joy, and all these possibilities present themselves to me.
And I accept as many as I can.
Except for days I don't.
Those are the sad days. The days lost to worries and angst that never gets me anything but a sense of stolen time.
Even if this day, this life, this existence, is a simulacrum, an advanced computer program, I dig it. I love it. I revel in it.
I think, therefore I am.
And I am alive.
I think at least a hundred times a day.
Here's a song. It's "Free" by Flo and the Machine.
