I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.
— The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus
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Solipsists’ dilemma

I’ve so often worried that the world existed only 
within the boundaries of my 
(stark, lonely, windswept)
mind; so, naturally, your entrance into my life 
felt the most unreal of all, a rare
and seething thing, a lightness made visible. 
still, even my vanity isn’t enough to believe I could dream you,
that I could think you into existence as Zeus did Athena. 
imagine the irony now, that you’ve made me the least real of all.
All I am now is a vague suggestion of
psychosomatic sleepiness, that drifts in and out
with my recognition of your seeping absence.
now it is you who is the world, and me who is the creation.
your gifts to me were a shattering of my will
and a rampant inability to get full breath of air. 

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