I am me.

What knowledge this is.
I am in my house.
In my street.
In my suburb.
In my city.
In my country.
In my planet.

And I am me.

There are others. Ephemeral.
They are but a whirl of steel, flesh, lines and lies.
And there are walls, and floors, and doors.
There is light, white light.
There is shadow, deep, deep shadow.
And the noise! Such noise.
Clanging, banging, a bedlam all around us.
Chaos.

And you feed it, and feed it, and feed it.
And it grows. And obeys you.
And slowly descends into order.
But nothing has changed!
The lights are still bright.
The shadows still deep.
And the people around no more real.
So what is different.
Us.

What are we?
No, no.
You are not real. You are but steel, flesh, lines and lies.
What am I?
I am many things.
I am flesh. I am hate, and rage, and love, and life.
I am more and less.
I am me.
And soon I will not be.
When I end,
Will this false mockery of order,
This cacaphony of sights, sounds, and riotous life.
Will it end too?
Or will it simply slip back to what it was?
Unsullied by my influence.
My perception.
And await my coming once more?
I do not know.
But right now.
I am me.
And my world is mine.