I am alone.
This writer is.
These readers are.

The realization,
that creation
is merely made up by one’s mind,
Intertwined
into action,
reaction
of innumerable kind,
is deafening.

What if everything
is predestining 
by reality;
whereas reality remains unreal since “real” translates to merely banality. 

When I go out in the rain I will get wet.
When I cut myself I bleed—red.
When I run for too long, my limbs will get heavy.
Who decided, this is real,
when your sky might be colored cherry?

Solitude is unending—
because where does your soul go after existing?

Might existence be the utter result of consciousness?
Until when am I conscious, when does it end?