But it's never seemed real. My entire life has been as predictable as a play—and not a well-written play, something by Shakespeare. Why is that?
Surely I'm not the only one who feels this. Surely this feeling is the reason why so many philosophers say we live in a world of illusion, so many mystics say we are ourselves illusions—the reason why scientists used to say we're a swirl of atoms in empty space, and now say we're holograms. Whatever reality is, surely it isn't anything like this. If this really were all there is, we'd welcome death.
But we do. We're destroying our world and ourselves because we created a world of illusion, and believed it's real. Now we know better. But this new hell's no more real than the hells and heavens in which we used to believe.
I wish I could live—really live—once before I die.
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