Part 2 of 3: The Color of Broccoli

I have all these questions, but I don’t know if I’ll forget them tomorrow. Has tomorrow come? Is today tomorrow? When will tomorrow come? Time is infinite. Here. I don’t know if I’ve spent days here. Maybe weeks. Could even be years. Or maybe all this is between my alarm and my five minute snooze button. Time is all I have. But is time infinite in my five minute snooze?

The philosophers of old would kill to be in my position, no distractions, all the time in the world. They could ponder the meaning of life, the behaviors of people, who they are. I’m trying to figure those question out myself. I’ve figured out I need to live first to ponder the meaning of life. I’m merely existing. I need to see another person to ponder humanity’s behaviors. I need to know how I’m like or different from other people to know who I am. A person needs people in order to think.

But who would I even share my findings with? I could have figured out the meaning of life or the cure to cancer, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. I could know how the universe is made, how to bring world peace, but I can never share it. Knowledge is only worth something if you can share it. Without another person, the key to happiness is just wasted space in brain cells.

So I decided to make another person. A whole town of people. A story in my head. I would share my life with them. I would share the cure to cancer with them. Well, if I knew it. Except how can I make characters in a story when I can’t remember ever seeing another person?

I tell a story and words and their world float out of my mouth. The power of words whistle around me, the ideas carried with them dance in my imagination’s eye. Maybe word aren’t only meant to be a connection between people. Maybe words can be a connection between the back of the mind and the corner of the soul. Words can form a bridge between my imagination and my reality.

But what if this 8 by 8 by 8 room is my imagination? What if in reality I’m driving down the road in a professional looking neighborhood, in a professional looking car, in professional looking clothes, going to a professional looking job; what-if-ing about a place where imagination ruled? What if in reality I’m dying, so I decide to live in imagination?

I say these words and they are here from a moment, the time from when it is conceived in my brain to when it emits a sound and carbon dioxide into the air. Then the word are lost between the particles of nitrogen and oxygen. If only I could plaster words to the walls and read them for hours. I speak and make my thoughts into sounds that disappear after my lips have moved onto the next word. What if yesterday I knew why I was in here?

I have run out of words.

I have put all the words I know into infinite combinations. I need a new idea. My imagination is dying. Without new input, no output can occur. I am alone. I will never know anyone and no one will ever know me. So why do I still try to make myself known? No one will ever know I tried, so no one will ever know I gave up. But I will know. Is living for myself enough? Am I selfish like that? But is there anyone for me to be selfless for?

I’m rambling, I know. You probably want to get back to your coffee and daydreaming about the golden days of retirement. But words are precious to me and time is not.

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