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0 Comments | Jan 26, 2021


TreesWhile it is not truly me, it is the way you like to think of me.

 Ernest Hemingway


Perception, consciousness, awareness,

the stuff of life

to hear philosophers tell it.

Descartes believed his thoughts

made him real, gave him existence.

But he would say that, wouldn’t he?

Because we are all certain that we think.

And we all aspire to be real.

Yet sometimes, when I’m alone,

I can’t help but wonder.

Could I prove that I’m real

if called upon to do so?

Real in a strict mathematical sense.

So real that no objective observer

could deny it.

I can be seen, but sight

Is nothing but electrical signals.

I can be heard, but sound

is just waves wiggling about.

I can be felt,

but can you really trust your fingertips?


As we approach this bold new age

in which anything can be faked,

how can you prove your existence

even to yourself, much less to others?

I cannot prove I wrote this poem,

any more than you can prove

that you heard it or read it.

Absent all of that, how can we be sure

that it even exists?


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