existentialism, a commentary on my inner being
I don’t know why I’m here. I quite literally don't understand. How do two tiny cells create something like me? Five feet and three inches and one hundred ten pounds of cells? What? This shouldn’t work. These single cells are not even alive. They are alive, but they don't have autonomy. They can't think for themselves. But somehow, together, they make me? A very much alive, configuration of dead things. But dead means you have to once have been alive and now I’m just so confused, do I ever die? Because if I’m made up of un-alive things, then how can I ever die. How could anyone ever die? I am a host to my cells, they live off me. I am what makes me alive. And yet, I am not. I can think, but who really is thinking? Who really is in my head making all these decisions? Who is deciding what to type? Right now. I put a period right now. I type ttthree extra t's. i do, but I don't. And why am I even wondering this at this very moment when I should be studying for this AP World test I have coming up. What sparked my intrigue about my very being? Why is it that at the dullest of moments, I begin to question my existence? And why is it that when I begin to do so, I extinguish the flame of life by overanalyzing everything until I can no longer breathe. Until I can no longer function. Until I am watching my life through a distance, a foggy pane as they might say. Two steps away from myself, controlling my movements by proxy. Living my life through another person's eyes. When will I realize that person is me?
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