Anchored

We never touch anything. It looks like we do, and it feels like we do, but we never actually come in contact with anything.

At that miniscule, microscopic level, we remain separated. Something about electrons and likely-charged particles that will always repel each other. Neat stuff, explained here.

Isn’t it terrible when the most solipsistic, depressing philosophies are supported by scientific experimentation?

We are always alone, always separated from each other, from the world.

You think you’re walking on solid ground, that down is down and that you’ve got it all figured out. You’ve got your bearings and your reference points. You’ve staked your claim and you feel stable and sturdy. But you aren’t. You aren’t grounded in anything because, unbeknownst to you, you’re hovering, slightly, above the earth. All of your ideas, which you always thought had a direct relation to reality, are baseless. They come from you; they stay in your mind and there is no way, no matter how hard you try, to make them real, substantiated and factual.

That’s depressing, so you drop the philosophy, stop trying to come up with answers to the questions and look for another distraction. And you see a beautiful person that you think you can get lost in. So you run to them (technically, you hover) and you throw yourselves at each other. And you feel warm and safe and protected, but – gnawing in the back of your mind is this thought. You feel uncomfortable. You feel rejected, here on the threshold of acceptance. You’re not connected to anything.

You can’t be.

It’s impossible.

Fuck you science.