existence

I don't know why these surface, sensory (or mushy, as you call it) things affect me so. It's like they gently reach inside me and wake something up there. These crystals fall and I don't know where they come from. And if I turn the connection back to you, it melts like wax, seamlessly into place.

It's like I constantly have to say good-byes, if not in this physical realm, then at least somewhere that you'd never know about, but that doesn't diminish their existence into any less.

Augustine reasoned, I doubt that I exist, and the very fact that I doubt proves my existence. And Descartes, even more succinctly, simply concluded: I think, therefore I am.

You know how I know these good-byes exist? Because the pain is always real. I can pretend them away, but their absence is actually the true superficial, sensory experience. Because these white lies have no power over me, certainly no more than those across a silver screen.

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