Life is but a dream, and it’s completely absurd
You’re not crazy. It’s just that none of this is real.
You come into this world without asking to, in a body you never chose, surrounded by people who immediately begin telling you what you are. They give you a name, a gender, a nationality, a personality, and a set of rules to follow, and they pass it off as reality. You learn to play along, not because it makes sense, but because you’re not given a real choice. So you become someone. You try to make it work. You try to win, or at least not fall behind. You chase approval, success, love, purpose, whatever the script says will make you whole.
Eventually, something cracks. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s just a quiet, sinking recognition that none of this fits. The rules contradict themselves. The rewards don’t land. The people around you are just as lost, just as unsure, just as desperate to appear certain. And beneath it all, there’s a hum, something you can’t unhear once you’ve heard it, that tells you none of this is solid. It’s all floating. It’s all made up.
You look more closely and see it. The job titles, the spiritual paths, the carefully constructed identities, even your deepest beliefs about who you are and why life matters, they’re all stitched together by nothing more than repetition and agreement. Meaning, it turns out, is fragile. Truth, if you want to call it that, doesn’t seem to care about your ideas of it. Life doesn’t consult your preferences or pause for your realizations. It just keeps unfolding, strange and raw and indifferent to whether or not you understand it.
It starts to feel like a dream. Not a beautiful, poetic one. A surreal, often absurd dream, full of symbolism that doesn’t point to anything, full of effort that never seems to add up. You try to make sense of it, but there’s no real center to hold onto. You try to wake up, only to find there’s no one here to wake. The whole structure collapses not into answers, but into space. And in that space, there’s nothing to defend or pursue.
What’s left isn’t peace or joy or some elevated state. It’s just this. Breath. Movement. Color. Texture. This moment, as it is, without a story glued on top. And even that won’t stay. Nothing here stays. Which might sound terrifying at first. But when you’re no longer trying to keep anything, it becomes strangely simple. Not easier. Just clearer.
You stop trying to hold the dream together, and it stops holding you hostage. What’s left isn’t what you wanted, but it’s real. Sometimes it’s silent. Sometimes it’s devastating. And sometimes, when you’re not looking for it, there’s a kind of beauty in how little any of it needs to be.
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thank you for this
AMAZING ❤️