Trumanesque: dissociation/disbelief

Sometimes, I can’t believe that I’m alive, that I exist, that I have experienced 22 years of “life” on this planet. This tiny planet with a billion places to hide and a billion places that I’ll never go. This cannot possibly be real. I hope that this is a dream.

I look out of the window and see the skyline of the greatest city in the world, and I can’t believe it is real. Can it be that London isn’t really there? I struggle to understand that I was born in London and that I’ve always lived in London. Out of all of the towns, cities, countries in the world, I am London born and bred. How? Why?

I have only ever loved in London. The other half of me exists somewhere in the world. The chances of that person living in my area are practically none. There are millions of places that my soul mate could be, and millions of odds that suggest that we will never meet. This applies to everyone: you will likely never meet your soul mate because you exist in the wrong place, or even the wrong time. I am not cynical, I am truthful.

I hope that I wake up and find that this is a dream, that London does not exist, that borders do not exist, that history does not exist, that money and power do not exist, that I do not exist in this state, in this way. I can’t believe I’m alive and living in London. I can’t believe it. London, of all the places in the world. I am here. And I find that unbelievable.

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