I believe in disbelief.
The simple fact that I am right here, on earth, in Nebraska, in La Vista, in my house, typing at this computer, could be contested. I could be imagining all this. Maybe I’m some delusional schizophrenic locked away in an asylum somewhere. NPR, This I Believe, Mrs. Birky’s 7th hour Lit class, all of this could be a creation of my imagination on a day they forgot my meds.
Even the thought that the asylum that I live in is giving reality a little too much credit. Maybe I’m God, all creation is just something to pass the time, “Matt” is just a hobby of mine, just a story I’m writing to give all my angels a good laugh.
Maybe I’m nothing at all. There is no asylum, no God, no me at all. This one’s a little tricky to picture, but me, you, that kid over there, we have never, do not, and will never exist. Maybe existence is a lie.
I believe that the likelihood of me existing and typing this paper pretty much equals the chances of me not. If I told you that there were a desk and a book sitting in the back of the room, would you believe me? Well, the way I see it, it should be just as likely to find three awesome ninjas, or maybe a kick-ass polar bear.
If I were blind, would I believe in sight? If I were deaf, would I believe in sound? The whole basis of all of our belief is what we can experience. I believe that ours senses can lie to us, make us believe in things we shouldn’t. This applies not only to delusional lunatics, but to you and me as well. I also believe that there are senses that we can only imagine. If I had a sixth sense, things would be easier to believe. I believe that garbage smells bad, but I really have no way of knowing whether or not garbage glarks bad or friettes good.
I believe here is no end, there has never been a beginning. But this essay did begin, and here is where it ends, if you believe in that sort of thing.
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