Ever since I was a young child, I'd get these sudden creeping thoughts: What if this moment is the only thing that's real? What if this second is the only second I've ever experienced, and all my memories of yesterday are backstories implanted in me? What if I'm really in a future reality, one so bleak that I'm plugged into a life-simulator, just dreaming through my yesteryears?
As I grew, so did the Thoughts. What if I'm an infinite being, dreaming up a finite existence? What if souls are entities that drifted through–floated into a person, then onto the next? Am I the radio, or the radio waves? What if I'm the only one that exists, and everything else is an illusion I've made up?
What if this is all a simulation, and who I am is just a character someone else has written?
Sometimes the thoughts came to me like whispered words carried by the wind, words I could ponder with a shiver that passed as quickly as a breeze. Other times, the thoughts would seize me, shake me violently with a secret knowledge–NONE OF THIS, NONE OF THIS IS REAL.