love

Greg and I. We Do Not Exist


          You gotta give me the proof I do not exist, – Greg was persistent, I was surprised he was interested, very interested, sincerely involved  

          You are way into evidence, my dear. Research question, hypothesis, data evaluation, hypothesis testing, and blah-blah-blah. It would be easier for us to communicate if you were not that fixated with your academia. If you could just perform your surgeries…   
          Why?
          Your academic personality limits your perceptions to the logic of correlation, causation, and the facts to support arguments.  Your mind denies the reality beyond that. You sincerely believe that everyone lives within the same proposition-and-evidence matrix.
          But I need evidence.
          What if you had no idea what evidence means? What if you were not taught to live your life within the trap of cause and effect? What if you had no idea what logic means?
          And what would happen than, Vixen?
          There would NOT be anyone here that would ask to explain inexplicable. Your mind created scholarly Greg who thinks, feels, and acts based on how you were trained to behave. What and who you think you are is just a fiction, an illusion, a fantasy.     
          What should I do?
          Now your mind is offering another illusion, the illusion that you should do something about it.
          So… you think everything is the product of our mind?

I nodded. It was getting late, I was getting tired

          If so, who am I?
          Like I said, there is NO I or you. We do not exist.  
          Damn, Vixen

The evening was warm, the air was redolent of jasmine, our discussion was weird, being with him was habitually magical. He was an illusion, a creation of my mind. He did not really exist, and I did not care. I did not exist, and I did not care either. My mind kept throwing at me a bunch of expectations from our date, I could not turn my brain off and focus on the present moment. But it did not bother me. The created illusion of the little and vulnerable Vixen in love with Greg seemed real, so fucking real; but I knew it was another mind game. And I observed, curiously observed and experienced the Friday darkness, Greg’s skepticism and aggressive horniness, my obsession with him and pain. I had no expectations from either Greg or myself, I was just an observer that evening, the observer of the Vixen in love and the Greg in his career.