If you live in a state of constant doubt, are you truly alive?

I’ve spent my whole life looking behind my back, checking every corner and crevice of my setting. Paying close attention to the small details. I’d been so.. elsewhere my entire life, that I never felt truly myself. Home. Unless I’m actually at home.

A thick cigar hangs in my mouth, the sun setting over the horizon… I stare calmly at the waves, the ones in my pool and those further down decorating the beach. The sand stares back at me and I close my eyes, living in the moment - if it weren’t for the whispering music playing in the background. Playing the same soothing sound I just couldn’t put an end to, even if I tried.

After awhile, I’m snapped out of the moment, the music too irritating, too grating, getting louder and louder as I step closer the exit. Or the gateway home.. I wasn’t sure all the time. But this would happen often; cracks in reality; loud music calling me to run, to leave, speaking tunes with no decipherable meaning. Closer… closer.. but I can’t bring myself to the handle.

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This was real life, right? Surely the smell of the rain on a cold day would help or the hot sun burning into my skin and bringing pools of sweat to my face. That would remind me that these sensations could surely be nothing less then real life. Right? So why then was I constantly questioning reality if I was home? I don’t question reality at home, I don’t question anything. Could I leave? Did I really want to face whatever the truth may be. Like all of us, I’d rather the comfort of familiarity.

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Opening my mouth a few inches wider, I let the cigar slip onto the floor, watching it burn its flames for awhile before stepping it out, putting on my sandles, going to rest to put an end to the music. Like usual, I sleep like a baby for hours.