If all it takes to experience something is to write it, then what do I want to imagine?

A mix of mundane and fantastical scenarios simply because I’m curious about a multitude of experiences and “outcomes.”

No purpose. Only being. Only consciousness. Only observing my creation and creating my observation.

If this is all there is to it, I suppose it’s not so bad to exist in this form.

It’s when the other yous (other people) want to force and encroach, that things get bad. They get evil. And they get hopeless.

But existing to marvel at the variety and scale of nature, life, existence, is a thing to behold. A massive thing to both completely understand, yet never understand.

The (sometimes) infuriating paradox of existence.