I think that, perhaps, life has gotten to me. I used to believe in love, in life, and in living, but now I find myself in disbelief of myself. I’m a shade, a 2 dimensional shadow of who I could be. Perhaps the world does not fade around me, but I instead fade from the world, a god whose worshippers lie dead beneath rotting stone and whose temples crumble beneath snaking ivy. Such a being is no being at all, for he who needed temples and worship to live was never really alive. Reality has won this round. We are all mice running in circles, except the mouse is intelligent; it just lives. We must make meaning from living, we must find patterns and rules for reality. But I now see it all for what it is. Life is random. We do not spend life attempting to fulfill a greater meaning, we spend life attempting to create a meeting when the true challenge lies in accepting that there is in fact no meaning. The whole of life is the attempt to make sense of the senseless, to make meaning out of the meaningless; it is, in and of itself, the creation of reality from a dream and perhaps most importantly, the creation of a dream from reality.