Undeniable Truth

It is one truth that I am lost.

That I occasionally step outside whatever this is—this rhythm of days, this idea of structure— the matrix; and see it for what it might be: constructed, fragile, almost rehearsed. I am told to come out of my head, to stop hoping for fantasies to come alive. But how do I do that when I am perfectly aware of the fantasy we live through every day?

The façade of normalcy, the lie that life is structured or the belief that time moves cleanly forward—these are comforts we repeat until they feel true. It is easy to understand myself in isolation, in silence. But what happens when that understanding refuses to survive the noise of everything else? What happens when an animal is not allowed to be an animal?

And yet, not everything feels uncertain.

Here is another truth: when the mind knows, it knows.

I know that I have met you. And we may meet again in our next lives, or the afterlife, or in the world outside of the matrix, or never. But the fact that we met, is a truth. I know that you weren’t imagined by me. The meeting itself is real in a way that our existence is not.

Here’s a question: if everything is random, if purpose is something we invented to make sense of chaos, then where does our obsession with order even come from? Why do we crave structure so desperately? Why does chaos unsettle us, instead of freeing us?

We name things to make them manageable. Fear, love, faith. But when you look closely, they are such strange and almost irrational ideas. A life willing to end itself for another—in the name of love, belief, revenge, when biologically, life is meant to preserve itself. So what are we really living by? Instinct, or story?

And maybe the harder question is this: is it kinder to lie to ourselves sometimes, just enough to feel okay? Or is it cruel?