Life in The Fishbowl

I am living.

That is all I know: that I exist. I merely drift along the days in this clear, cool substance that surrounds me, sustains me.

I do not know what I am, where I came from, or what shall become of me, if there is anything that does become of something like me; if I am a something at all.

I try and think back to where I might have come from, but I end up thinking back too hard with no avail and then completely forget what I was thinking about in the first place.

The other thing I know, is that I and the clear, penetrable substance that envelops me is contained in some kind of geometric shape made of an element as clear as the fluid.

I have no concept of time, rather I can't remember what happened before a single moment. Perhaps it's because my life consists so much of the same things, I wouldn't be able to tell anything apart anyway.

I merely go around and around in circles, confused and frustrated at why I am here and where I have come from and where I will go. Every graspable understanding of time, every possible minute causing fresh panic and fear.

And then I think, what if I was not meant to be the thing that I am? Because, I am sure that if I was meant to exist in this body, I would not feel this way. Maybe I was not meant for this life. This life of pure frustration that I cannot escape no matter how high or low I swim. I have no hope to get out, never. With the knowledge that I will probably always be here in this peculiar shape, surrounded by nothing and everything, forever trapped in my own head.

And perhaps, this is exactly what I was meant to be. Perhaps every other being like me, if there are any, all feel the exact same way. And with this, I gain peace in myself and I look out into the world and-

I am living.

That is all I know: that I exist. I merely drift along the days in this clear, cool substance that surrounds me, sustains me.