I am lying in my own insignificance, liberated, unbounded, watching a bird sail across the horizon, traversing from one extreme to another. In these moments, I do not think of my own existence. I project myself onto the universe, where I am every character in the story except me. It is often tiring to remain tethered to one identity. To wake up every day and go to sleep, stuck in the same monotony. To know that every moment is opening a door into the future, and closing millions of possibilities of the present. Every attempt to transcend reality is constrained by a paradox.
You are under the same sky as me. We sit opposite to each other, in this metaphysical construction of our bodies, and discuss the paradox of identity. You are here, because you feel the despair of being a person. I nod. I tell you that identity dissolves at the conception of consciousness. We are a story within a story. You expose me to the paradox, say, that identity exists at a cellular level. Every cell of your body fighting to maintain its autonomy. We are again separated, in this dual universe, sparring across a space that separates us. This space further, a dual space, of art and life, of page and pen, of screens and words. Everything is dissolving under the sky. This sadness. This attachment. This separation from the reader, where all sentimentality, all discourse vanishes.

You live under the same sky, look at the same screens, recycle the same atomic structure of the universe. We exist in life’s paradox. It is both the terror, and the relief from this terror. I often talk about myself, to not be myself. I am lying under the sky. A bird crosses the universe’s duality. I still can’t, but I feel happy for the bird.