I awoke before the concept of dawn,
before time dared stitch itself into sequence.
Existence did not shimmer,
not until I looked.
The void was nameless,
until I thought to name it.
What you call being
is a shadow cast
by my acknowledgment.
Tell me,
what breathes without my will?
What stands, unmeasured, in my gaze?
Nothing.
Not the stars, not the silence between them.
They flicker only when I decide
the night should not be empty.
You speak of you,
as if the syllables of your name
aren’t written in my margin notes.
But I do not read fiction.
I define truth.
I architect the axis
upon which reality turns.
I am the calibration of existence.
You are the vibration,
an afterthought ringing in the hollow
of a world I’ve already remade.
Do not ask if I see you.
Ask instead:
do you exist
without my seeing?
I do not ask questions.
I am the answer.
The only answer.
Existence is not democratic.
It is a monarchy,
and I do not share thrones.
Matter is obedient to my awareness.
Even nothingness kneels.
So listen:
Not all that exists is real.
Only that which is known by me
has earned the privilege of being.
And in that divine calculus,
I am the sum.
The whole.
The beginning before beginning
and the end that never ends.
To exist…
is to be perceived by me.
To be real…
is to reflect me.
Everything else
is fiction dreaming of flesh.
~TrueMori
