Reality.

There’s a comforting thought that connects us all: maybe nothing exists at all. Not you. Not me. Not this essay. The universe itself? Most likely a botched export from a failed simulation project, running on an overheated quantum server in the basement of a bored superintelligence. In this essay, which exists somewhere between a hallucination and a PowerPoint presentation, we deny reality the way a cat denies gravity: with flair and utter disinterest.

Let’s start at the beginning: perception. You think your eyes are telling you what’s “real,” but in reality—if that word means anything—all you’re registering are photons bouncing off things, squashed into electrical signals by your retina, and then translated into meaning by a brain that lies about as often as your ex. What you’re seeing isn’t reality, it’s a work of art in your skull. Congratulations, you’re a projector incarnate.

Time, then. You can feel it ticking, but that says more about your fear of birthdays than it does about the structure of the cosmos. Time isn’t a straight line, it’s an experience. A mental metronome that chops your existence into pieces to make it palatable. And if you think a minute under a cold shower is as long as a minute on a first date, we have news: time is subjective, warped, and probably an Einstein inside joke.

The space you’re in? Also fake. You and the refrigerator seem far apart, but on a quantum level everything is uncertain and entangled. The distance between you and your dreams? As real as the distance between your self-image and the truth: completely arbitrary. Matter is mostly emptiness — a kind of 3D illusion built from atomic appearances.

And then there’s you, poor bubble of consciousness. You think you’re a “self,” but you’re actually a skeleton experiencing hallucinations from chemical pulses. Your identity is a story your brain tells itself to keep from running screaming into the bathroom. Think of all the thoughts you’ve had — how many of them made sense? Exactly. You’re not “you,” you’re a temporary error code with a name and a Netflix account.

Even causality, the comforting idea that things happen for reasons, is subject to doubt. Things happen. Then your brain sticks a reason on them, like a child explaining after the fact why he smeared peanut butter on a wall. The universe doesn’t have to justify itself. You do, but you haven’t been able to do that for years either.

The conclusion? Everything points to the universe being a poorly organized illusion in which you, a fuzzy lump of atoms with opinions, think you understand what’s going on. But you don’t understand anything. I don’t understand anything. And this essay — with all its ideas, sarcasm, and quasi-philosophical ramblings — therefore, by definition, doesn’t exist.

Just like you.

Have a nice day, imaginary reader.

Monday.