Living the Lie

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He knew he died every night. He just had to figure out what made him so special that he knew. 

There were billion others living the same mundane life over and over again without a thought about what happened to them. Why was he chosen to be shown the truth about their sleep? More importantly, if he was chosen there must be a power that chose him. What was that power?

He got up from the bed and walked out to the mirror to look at himself. He was the same man every day except that he died each night and his consciousness was re-uploaded into him. Maybe, he mused to himself, we live only for a day. That's our lifespan. And this is how we extend it. 

But was he really the same person? If he died last night and his "consciousness" was shifted, he laughed to himself as he thought this, as if consciousness could be shifted, wouldn't his consciousness be shifted in a new body?

So is he really the same person or was he a woman yesterday? Could he really distinguish if he was sent to "live" in a different vessel? Wasn't the entire universe like a freakin' thought bubble where everybody was connected with some central power? What if the central power is messing with us? Was there any way of knowing?

Emil Nolde (1867-1956), Mask Still Life III, 1911
Surely he had all these memories of the man he was today. But those memories are so intangible. They seem so unreal! Did he really drop tea on himself a week ago? If he tried to, could he feel the warmth of the liquid on his lap again?

But that would explain the weird feeling of not being himself. Today was one of those days when he wasn't feeling quite right. Something was odd about this day. He just couldn't put his finger on the issue.

He started walking out to the backyard. He remembered the idea of that "hidden creature". If evolution had created all kinds of creatures, the one which can hunt the best, one which can run the best, one which can jump the best, and one which can think the best. Wouldn't there be a creature which can hide the best?

A creature that can hide the best would never be seen or found by anybody. They'd be so perfect at it that nobody has ever catalogued them. Is this daily death the same kind of cheat where it happens so naturally that nobody else but he suspects it? 

Wait, does that mean he was closer to God or something? He smiled to himself and turned to face his living room again. Something was indeed odd about this day, he thought to himself and walked inside the house again. Whatever was odd, the analysis had to wait. He was getting late for the stupid puppet show called life.

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