There is nothing to write about. Everything has been taken. From God to pollution to how chairs are made. Somebody has written it all and somebody has written it better. Words are drawn and used. They are altered, even meaningless. So what, really, is a word? It is merely a noise, a cacophony. But of what? How could it possibly mean anything at all? Words provoke feelings but feelings are nothing but chemicals.

If feelings are nothing and words are nothing, than what is life? Nothing amounts to nothing. I can imagine another realm where the creatures are laughing at me. Mocking me because I will never be able to understand. Their amusement at my oblivion would suggest that they understand. Can they see past the wall that stands at my eye? Maybe these beings don't even laugh. Or maybe they are in fact one.

I'm writing this now but I have to wonder whether it was the work of my hand that scribbled down the rest. Or maybe it's been there all along. Maybe, perchance, perhaps. Nothing is absolute. This illusion of a life causes me to talk myself in circles. Cirlces are infinite, so is that what this is? And endless cycle of nothing.

Ever wonder if people have been to the moon? They could have all lied. Even if they believe that they did, they may not have since the past doesn't exist. Maybe, possibly, perhaps. Elliott Smith brilliantly put it in a song. Everything means nothing to me. But you know what? Elliott Smith is dead. He killed himself. One has to be alive to die, but what proof is there of life?

Proof. Proving. What evidence is needed to prove? Memories? But how accurate are they? I often find myself remembering something that I'm not even sure occured. Was it a dream? Was it from another life? Or maybe I just created the artificial memory as an artificial thought in my artificial mind.

Artificial. Artificial. Artificial hair, colour, flavour. Doesn't artificial mean fake? If something is there and we see it and taste it and feel it, it must be real. Not fake. Unless everything is an illusion. Back to circles, I go. Nothing is real but it has to be because I feel it but it can't be because maybe I'm not even real.

Imagine a fat kid sitting in front of a TV screen, controlling my every move. Enjoying domination. But, Little Boy, you don't know that I'm the one in control. I can almost hear him crunching his Cheetos, talking to the inanimate object in front of him. On The Sims, you can tell your characters to write, but you can't see what they're writing. Maybe they ask the same questions as me. And maybe the people The Sims are watching on TV are wondering the same thing. I feel as though I'm standing between two mirrors, counting how many mes I see.

1, 2, 3, 10 000, infinity. So if I can see an image of me repeated and repeated, how can it be infinite? Isn't it supposed to be infinite? But how can I know if it's real if I can't taste or see infinity? Maybe the things we're oblivious to are the things that are real. I can only hope that there is a language, whether poken or not, that can portray the actual meaning of real. Not the "artificial" word. WORDS DON'T HAVE DEPTH. They slip off your tongue so simply. They taste like sugar or sometimes vomit.

Circles. All shapes are continuous, right? Square, diamonds. All shapes are continuous. Have you ever heard of a shape whose lines didn't connect? Maybe you could predict that they would intercept. But how can one possibly predict the future? THE FUTURE IS NOTHING. I'm writing in capital letters as if that would emphasize the meaning, but how can that even happen if the words don't mean anything? Nothing! I want to know the meaning of nothing. Excuse me while I look in the dictionary. "Not anything; no thing. Something that doesn't exist."

I need to stop writing before my hand falls off and my head explodes.