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Multiverse

July 2, 2011

When I think about my life, and all the various possibilities– who I was, who I could have been, who I am, who I’m not, and everything I could be, but will not be in the future– I am overwhelmed with potential, and emotionally disheartened as I realize that I will never be all I can be. I want to be everything and everyone, I want to explorer and know and experience and manifest all that is the world, and all that is me, but I can’t, because I’m only mortal, and only human. I am limited by this physical existence, even though it is this physical existence that (paradoxically) makes my ability to experience anything, possible.

There’s probably another me in all of the infinite planes of existence, and they are all fulfilling the potential I could not, but I still feel it– I sense it all, and in my greed I want those experiences for myself. I want to be the greatest of Me. I’m selfish and ambitious, and I want to do it all, just because I know I can. I thrive off of experiencing new things, and off the evolution of who I am. I am happiest when I am new, and when I am doing novel things. So I must experience all that I can at all costs, if only so that I can achieve a happiness and joy that only comes from the fulfillment of being true to one’s purpose.

I want to be evil, want to be good, I want to be male, female, dead, alive, desperate and serene. I want to be and do many things, but most of what I really want are impossible to accomplish in a single lifetime. This is why I turn to fiction. With the power of the imagination and the freedom of fiction, anything is possible, if only in literary form. I can do anything I want if I write about it, and I have all the resources I need to write. I don’t need money, social skills, or even literary coherency to write.

No one ever understood me anyway, so writing to be appreciated is meaningless. They might appreciate my writing (or the writing as they perceive it), but they will never appreciate me. I don’t need to appreciated to begin with– that’s just an illusive need constructed by the Ego to create a false sense of belonging, and a sense of social integration and solidarity. No one will ever know or understand me, so I wonder why I still keep hoping and believing that if I open up enough, they will understand me. No words can properly convey the complexity that is Me, and no perceptions can break through the prejudice inherent in everyone that prevents them from understanding me– and prevents them from understanding anyone.

So, since I cannot write to be understood, I will write to experience all of Me. The person I was, could have been, am, could be instead, and all the potential Me’s of the future. The world is at my feet waiting for me to experience, devour, and regurgitate in literary form, still hungry for me. I have all the ideas right here, right now, everywhere around me. Everything’s here, in this Multiverse of Life, and I just need to eat it, take it in, digest it, interpret it, and convey it creatively, thereby experiencing it. This is my epitome of my life. To experience reality through fiction, and to experience fiction by conveying it to reality.

The outside looking in.

The inside looking out.

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