Once upon a time there was a class of geography students. They all existed in a space which was commonly known as a classroom, with an approximate size of 6 by 7 metres, making it about 42 square metres.
However, the fact that they existed is highly debatable. Did they exist because they had physical matter and mass? In that case, do dead people still exist? Or did they exist rather because they were aware of their own existence? In that case, are humans the only things that exist?
How do I know anything else exists apart from me? I mean, people tell me that they have thoughts and whatnot, but how do I know that they’re telling the truth? How do I know they’re not figments of my imagination? If they are, does it really make a difference? If everything in the universe is a figment of my imagination, is it really any different? Do I even exist? Is me doubting my own existence a sign that I do? Maybe I’m just a figment of someone else’s imagination? If I am, does it really make a difference?
Maybe we’re all just an imaginary story thought up by some incompetent immortal 3rd grader for their weird little assignment that they’ll probably fail. Maybe we are an abandoned video game in an alternate universe.
Maybe one day I’ll die and my entire experience, decades of memories, emotions and relationships, will become obsolete and forgotten. Maybe when I die some deity will collect my life and place it into their filing cabinet, one grey papery folder in a sea of billions, just sitting there collecting dust for all eternity. Maybe when I die an angel will swoop down, pluck my consciousness out of the ground like a precious gem and take it home and shine it up, delicately placing it on their crystalline mantlepiece to be admired.
Maybe everything known to man is merely an atom in an unimaginably huge being which goes about its business unaware of the drama, death and disaster occurring in minute scale within its own body. Maybe we are unimaginably huge beings, and there are entire universes just as complex as our own housed within our atoms. Maybe it’s an endless spiral, with universes in atoms in universes in atoms in universes in atoms in universes in atoms. Incomprehensively large and incomprehensively small.
Maybe the entirety of human existence is nothing. Maybe it’s everything. Maybe nothing I do matters. Maybe every minute action, every tiny choice and movement, every piece of rice I choose to eat and every step I choose to take, changes everything.
Maybe every decision, action and event in the history of the universe was inevitable, a combination of circumstance, space and time that would never have been any other way. Maybe the whole idea of a multiverse filled with universes of stuff in every possible configuration is ridiculous, because ever since the start there’s only been one possible outcome, which is the one we’re in now. Maybe that’s because someone, or something, is out there, engineering everything to be how it is.
Maybe with every millisecond, every action someone chooses to make or not make, a billion different universes will fracture off like shards of glass, shining like the infinite different wavelengths of light.
Maybe this existential crisis has gone on for too long. Maybe it’s time to stop.
Maybe in another universe I continue writing this until I have precisely 3004 words and then it becomes the most famous literary work in human history, and then people wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stopped.
Not this universe though.