The Recycled Identity

Is it ever possible to be real, I wondered. Is it ever possible, is it ever possible. Is it ever, is it ever. Is there even such a thing as ‘reality’? Could that even be true? Could that be true, could that be true. These are some of the thoughts that were going through my head. Hopeless thoughts – pointless thoughts, you might say. They were certainly not productive thoughts. If only I could have some productive thoughts, I said to myself. If only I could then that would be productive. Perhaps I could produce reality with my thoughts, I thought to myself then. But if I could do that, then how would I know if the reality that I had just produced really was reality, and not just part of my ongoing confusion, like everything else? How would I know, how would I know. How would I recognise reality, even if I did come across it? These are the thoughts that were going through my head. These were the thoughts, these were the thoughts. I’m not feeling very well, I realise. I have to acknowledge that. I have to take that into consideration. I was trying to be a person, I was trying to be human being. Was it ever possible, I wondered? Was it ever real? What is it mean to be real, anyway? The other people didn’t like me of course, the other people never do. There is implacable hatred in their eyes. That’s what I have to deal with, you see. That’s part of what I have to deal with anyway, but it’s not the worst part. It’s far from being the worst part. ‘What’s the science behind a simple question?’ the  voice on the radio blared. ‘Can science explain reality? Do scientists have a theory for reality? How do they plan to test this theory?’ The Deterministic Environment was activating old memories of mine, memories that I’d long since forgotten about. It was stirring them up and they were floating to the surface. They were floating to the surface like so much stagnant scum in an ancient cesspit. The stench was unbearable. I couldn’t help myself from retching. Some memories are best left repressed, I said to myself. What’s the latest science on reality, I wondered? Have we arrived at a definitive formula? Have we identified all the variables? I used to be human once, you know. So the story goes, so the story goes. And who are we to question the story, after all? Who are we, who are we? These are some of the thoughts, these are some of the thoughts. The memories are how we get to construct the identity, of course – they are how we get to construct the Recycled Identity. I am a victim of the Recycled Identity, you know. I’m a slave to it. It’s the same old story and it will never grow old. Only it always is old of course. Horribly old, frighteningly old…







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