I have this thought too, and I wanted to write about it for some time, but never did it. It's funny/interesting to see, that other people have that too.
It's weird to think that Japan exists right now and the people are still doing the things they’d normally do even though I'm not there.
They’re asleep right now in their little beds— some might be awake right now looking at the sky thinking the same thoughts about me in my country and what I'm up to.
At night before I fall asleep I'll try to remotely view the places I remember having been. A little bench in Cusco, a quiet cemetery in Tokyo. First I imagine myself in the environment that I remember, then I imagine what it looks like right now, in the darkness with no one around.
I know remote viewing isn't real, but it's a fun mental escape.The places I once visited continue to exist after I visit them.
In my self-centered world, the entire narrative revolves around me and my experiences and everything happening outside of my bubble is inconsequential.
The barista from this morning is still behind that counter doing whatever baristas do. I wonder where she’ll go and what will happen after she finishes her shift. What will be for dinner? What debts does she owe? What are her worries? Who cares? I’m sure no one else is wondering these questions about her.
I have this thought too, and I wanted to write about it for some time, but never did it. It's funny/interesting to see, that other people have that too.
I love the Internet -- thanks to anonymity, it's now really hard to tell if this was posted by a real person, or by the ghost of a young, self-doubting George Berkeley.
Cheers, whoever you are!
You know what thought regularly does me in? The most boring, banal, painfully obtuse conversation partner you've ever had the displeasure of knowing still thinks of themselves as the main character in their story. They're misunderstood, a lone wolf, a silent genius to themselves. There's a whole universe in there, and maybe the stars look more like graph paper but by god there are millions of them.
I mean, they are the main character in *their* story. They're not completely wrong.
You know what thought regularly does me in? The most boring, banal, painfully obtuse conversation partner you've ever had the displeasure of knowing still thinks of themselves as the main character in their story. They're misunderstood, a lone wolf, a silent genius to themselves. There's a whole universe in there, and maybe the stars look more like graph paper but by god there are millions of them.
Thoughts like these cross my mind often; I find them grounding.
Sometimes I like to imagine somewhere neither I or nor anyone I know has ever been, where there's very little human activity at all—the middle of the remote ocean by night, for instance: dark waves, the noise of the moiling, in the bare light of the moon and stars. To imagine a scene like this, and to know for sure that it's plausible, that it's happening somewhere, makes me feel at home in the world.
You or I may wonder about who wrote the other's words. Nothing appears by way of true knowledge, but maybe the exercise bolsters our ability to sympathize.