Writing with Ego
March 24th, 2024
It's so easy to get lost in the mix of things; I forget what's real and what's abstract so often. These words I've written, they're all fake. Pointers to some contextual reality that exists in some language space that'll never exist.
Being... now. Here. That's what matters. Look around. It's March already. I'm twenty-three, if even that means anything.
I'll go to the gym tomorrow again. I'm physically stronger than I've ever been.
These written words which scar reality are a reflection of my mind; writing that "I am physically stronger" is an imprint of my ego, forcing its existence out of the void: the ego in narcissistic birth to itself. It tries to action an abstract accomplishment into reality through symbol. However, perhaps, what I really feel, what I really see, is that there is still some remnant of truth lying in the lines in-between. There is consciousness and there is no consciousness: there is the world as it is.