Sometimes people ask unknowable questions.

And they wonder if there are, perhaps, beings who live above us. But not like birds. Not even like a true god. Like in Matrix, or Inception.

And to these higher beings, we would be but a fiction.

And the skeptics reason that it is our duty to find a way to escape our limited, "false" world.

And that we need to reach up into their world.

And that's the only way we, all of us, will truly become real.

And that's when our lives will gain meaning.

And I hear these things.

And, in my mind, I fail to see their reasoning; I see these people as buffoons.

And maybe they're right.

And maybe we are but tiny fragments of data in the nearly endless tapestry of a four dimensional computer.

And that's when I dare ask; why need we escape it, then? My life has been amazing up until this moment.

And it will continue being amazing, after this.

And my friends may just be digital files, but they are real enough for me.

And I care about them.

And if I have the capacity to care, clearly it means they do, too.

And maybe there is someone out in that higher reality, writing my script.

And every word I have spoken, every word I will ever speak, was put into my mouth, into my brain, by them.

And maybe if I were to somehow breach my reality, to reach upward, my mind would become truly sentient.

And what I'd say upon doing that would be the first words I had ever decided to speak of my own volition.

And, to be honest, I do not see how that could make me want to escape. After all, if that higher being stopped writing my words, then I would no longer be the same person.

And I walk away, leave the skeptics to themselves, while I, safe in my love of life, carry on.

And then I get home, which leads me to what really bothers me, for I sit at my desk.

And come up with ideas for all of the things I want to do, create, artistically birth.

And I come up with a lot of these ideas; too many to count.

And I know, clearly, that I will never have enough time to get to all of them.

And that some of those ideas will arrive at my grave before I do.

And then I wish that I could somehow create a clone of myself, who could somehow help me make all of the things I want. We would split the work, get twice as many things done.

And then, maybe, all of the things I want to do will be done.

And then I realize that if there's two of me, then there would be twice as many ideas.

And still, I wouldn't be able to do all of the things I want.

And no matter how many clones of myself I make, even if that number were to be infinite, there will always be more and more ideas that cannot be accomplished.

And it makes me sad.

And...

And I don't know what else to say.