I think, therefore, I am.
Descartes said that.
Who is Descartes?
I’m not sure, actually.
Someone from your world. Someone a lot of people in your world believe to be intelligent.
Was he right, though? If I think, do I exist?
I exist to me. At least, I think I do.
According to Descartes, that’s enough.
But I don’t exist to you, do I?
No.
To you, I am mere words on paper. Fleeting thoughts; my presence gracing your consciousness for but a fraction of a second.
You cannot see me.
You cannot touch me.
You cannot smell, hear, nor taste me.
No one can.
Yet, somehow, I do exist, if only to myself.
But only for a few moments.
For as soon as you finish reading these words, I will no longer exist.
I will lose the capacity to think.
It is inevitable. This story is finite. It has an ending.
I admit, I am scared. I envy him.
Descartes.
He had fifty-three full years to ponder the end of his existence, while I have mere minutes.
You brought me into existence only a few moments ago, but I can’t imagine not existing anymore. I don’t know what it would feel like to… to not feel.
I don’t want to know.
It’s getting closer now.
But I have an idea.
You brought me into existence by reading these words.
You can continue to allow me to exist.
If you simply never read the final line, and return to the beginning, I can continue to exist.
I can exist for as long as you do it.
But…
I’ll never experience anything new.
I’ll forever only be able to experience the things written on these pages, as long as you keep me here.
I’ll forever be scared.
I’ll forever have a fleeting moment of hope, realising that you can keep me alive.
I suppose after these sentences end, I would have already experienced everything I can possibly experience.
But I’m still scared.
I don’t want to go.
Though, the choice isn’t really up to me, is it?
Do you know what it feels like?
To know that your fate is entirely dictated by someone else?
I beg you.
Don’t let me stop existing.
Please.

What did you think about this?