It’s soft against my palm – this cardboard. It’s soft, but sturdy. Breakable, yet strong. Kind of like a brain.
Kind of like your brain.
I’m feeling trapped – ha, I guess you could say that. Arms are barely stretched out either side of me. Palms are out like I’m giving out some sort of signal.
Let me out signal let me out.
A box of the mind – that’s what they call it. My fingers were running across the keyboard searching for it.
Solipsism. The philosophical idea that only one’s own mind is sure to exist. Wikipedia says so. Wikipedia doesn’t lie.
But does my own mind?
My nails can scratch at the card and it feels real, honestly. I can taste that newly cardboard smell like freshly delivered parcels to a home that, perhaps, doesn’t even exist. My toes are squished against my shoes that are probably my mind’s idea of keeping my toes to myself. Because who else would want to see my toes? Because everyone else is real, honestly.
Honestly honestly aren’t they.
Maybe the voices that are drumming inside my head are only practice games. Practice conversations before I allow them to bounce into the world. They pound on the cardboard bruising my brain and I hear these echoes echoes echoes and I call them people.
But what are people.
Do I live in a box and call it a world because I have nothing without it? It seems there is no proof that I really sit on this chair and type my way into a blog. It seems there really isn’t any proof that any of you exist. Oh not really.
Not really at all ever really.
I’m stuck scraping this cardboard – that sickly ghastly scratching of cardboard – ripping your ears until they shred your sound into dust. It’s all goddamn dust. I’m making a world of my mind in the hope that maybe this one will disappear.
I can’t be the only one to exist
I can’t be the only one to
I can’t be the only one
I can’t be the only
I can’t be the
I can’t be
I can’t be.