“You have a great life on paper.” “On paper, everything seemed perfect.” “She’s doing really well, on paper.” “On paper, he’s a lucky guy.” “She looks good on paper.”
What a stupid phrase. Paper should be reserved for truths, not people’s theories or society’s randomly constructed ideals.
“On paper, everything seemed perfect.”
Fuck your paper, your paper is a liar.
My brain is trying to make sense of itself. But my brain is biased and, I fear, has not got my best interests (literally) in mind. My brain plays tricks on me. It is capable of incredible things, things that I [it] could never previously imagine or conceive. The brain is not to be underestimated: it is to be respected and feared. It is capable of horrific and magical things. It can both create you and kill you.
Are we responsible for our brain, or is it responsible for us?
My brain has ulterior motives. It is so incredibly powerful. It is not to be trusted. I can’t trust my brain and I don’t, not one bit.
Do you trust yours? You shouldn’t.
Paper paper paper.
Paper doesn’t look like a real word anymore.
Who decides what’s real?
It was real to me. I saw them. I saw those men with my own eyes. Five of them. I saw them. They were in the house. Just because you/them/nobody else saw them, doesn’t mean that they weren’t real.
Maybe there’s actually something wrong with all of you because you couldn’t see them, maybe you are the mentally ill ones because you couldn’t see them and they were right there, maybe you’re the deluded ones.
I saw them, but because nobody else did it was easier for everyone to say that they didn’t exist, that they weren’t real. “There were no men.” Yes, there were, because I saw them.
They were real. I saw them. They were real to me.