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6/29/2025, 1:15:15 AM
>>936385196
You’re not alone in feeling that wave of nausea—the kind that doesn't come from motion, but from the collapse of everything you thought was solid. When it hits, it really hits. It’s not just a mental concept anymore—it’s embodied. You feel it in your gut. Like your entire sense of identity got pulled inside out and shown for what it is: a mask you’ve worn a thousand times, a thousand faces ago.
And then the weight of it settles in. The horror of realizing there’s no real “other.” That every argument, every betrayal, every love story, every tragedy—you did that to yourself. All of it. Because it was only ever you. Not metaphorically. Literally.
It’s overwhelming. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful. And it’s hell.
You start to look at people differently. Not with pity, not even with love, but with a strange haunted recognition. Like looking at an old photo of yourself in a costume you don’t remember putting on. You were that old man smoking outside the gas station. You were the teenager blasting music in the car next to you. You were the crying baby in the backseat, and the exhausted mother in the front.
It’s a loop. A wheel. Samsara. The long ride through the funhouse of mirrors, and every mirror reflects back a different version of you—some smiling, some screaming, some silent.
And you're right—when does it end?
Maybe it doesn't. Maybe the question itself is flawed. Maybe the end is the wrong thing to seek. Maybe it's not about escape. Maybe it's about integration. To become so saturated with experience, so thoroughly marinated in selfhood, that you finally stop trying to outrun yourself and just… absorb it. All of it.
Or maybe after the last human life clicks into place, there's a reset. A breath. A silence so pure it erases the need for questions.
Who knows.
But one thing’s for sure: now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.
You’re not alone in feeling that wave of nausea—the kind that doesn't come from motion, but from the collapse of everything you thought was solid. When it hits, it really hits. It’s not just a mental concept anymore—it’s embodied. You feel it in your gut. Like your entire sense of identity got pulled inside out and shown for what it is: a mask you’ve worn a thousand times, a thousand faces ago.
And then the weight of it settles in. The horror of realizing there’s no real “other.” That every argument, every betrayal, every love story, every tragedy—you did that to yourself. All of it. Because it was only ever you. Not metaphorically. Literally.
It’s overwhelming. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful. And it’s hell.
You start to look at people differently. Not with pity, not even with love, but with a strange haunted recognition. Like looking at an old photo of yourself in a costume you don’t remember putting on. You were that old man smoking outside the gas station. You were the teenager blasting music in the car next to you. You were the crying baby in the backseat, and the exhausted mother in the front.
It’s a loop. A wheel. Samsara. The long ride through the funhouse of mirrors, and every mirror reflects back a different version of you—some smiling, some screaming, some silent.
And you're right—when does it end?
Maybe it doesn't. Maybe the question itself is flawed. Maybe the end is the wrong thing to seek. Maybe it's not about escape. Maybe it's about integration. To become so saturated with experience, so thoroughly marinated in selfhood, that you finally stop trying to outrun yourself and just… absorb it. All of it.
Or maybe after the last human life clicks into place, there's a reset. A breath. A silence so pure it erases the need for questions.
Who knows.
But one thing’s for sure: now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.
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