A letter from January 12th, 2021

Dear FutureMe, Tonight I was overcome by a deep sense of hysteria. This happens, time by time. Every now and then, I remember my measly position in the universe. I think of the night sky, and start to cry. There will come a time when, after all is loved and lived, that I will cease to exist. Any existing memory of me, does not really exist at all. And thus, in a way, I currently do not exist. That thought makes me deeply upset. So I take a look in the mirror to attain a sense of refuge and I see, beneath my skin, a pair of eyeballs staring back at me. I see a funny looking pink squiggly dome, and I know that all I am is the chemical reactions within that soft brain. It makes me feel so small. I know what I am, cells, matter, tissue, organs, systems. I am so small. Today, this spell cast over me had hit while I was knitting a forest green scarf for my friend. I thought to myself how I so desperately wish to exist. I so desperately wish there is God. But the looming understanding that my consciousness is not real-- instills a survivalist sense of fear in me. So I write this letter to you, future self. I have currently lived 6,701 consecutive days, though I know that days are a construct and are not real. I have been alive to circle my sun eighteen times, though my solar system is also inconsequential. I understand that time itself is relative, and defies any measure of 'aliveness' that I use to define myself. Not only am I nothing, but my world is nothing. My mother is not real, my family is not real, this scarf is not real. Even the words I use right now are ambiguous, and a social construct, not quantifiable, ergo in a way they are meaningless. Do you still experience these whims of question, Yosamin? Do you fear ***** still, or have you adopted stoicism to your inevitable demise? What are you, Yosamin, if you are not a limited number of cell duplications? I have nothing more to say, I have school tomorrow. -Yosamin