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Is this blog a piece of evidence of my existence?

What about this very sentence?

How about now?

That third sentence wouldn't have come without the second sentence. The second wouldn't have come without the first. The first wouldn't have come before I sat down at this computer, an object made possible by the passing of time and man's desire to: make change, to invent, to know, to stand out...

The minutes passed make up both an ephemeral slice of memory and the platform that raises me to existence, to this seat and to this thought.

This thought is everything and nothing at the same time. I hope that as it forms objects and reality, an idea is the scale on which we weigh our existence (because I don't make much else more than questions).

It's hard to say if Earth would have done much better without the objects we have made and put into it, or if it is even possible to live and be content knowing we don't leave a mark. Does the temporal damage we leave behind give us self-affirmation and the will to live? Can we live based off our ideas alone?... or do we need to think that maybe at some point in the future someone may find an artifact from our lifetime and chronicle it, store it among the history of things and say, "She existed, and I know about it!" ?

It's so egocentric though, to think that Earth was made for us only to develop as individuals and soothe our neuroses with material objects. Is it really possible that all of this green is just for us? Is all this just a set made for humans to contemplate? Is it a cruel joke? A blessing? An unsolvable riddle? A never ending stream of questions? Do I have to be more than questions? or can I just be?

I want to just be the way I am, sitting and doing nothing. Every afternoon at least once I sit outside with the sun, because I know it will always be there in the same spot for me. I look across at my house and notice how similar its light blue panels are to the sky they touch. The two rectangular windows that face me stare at how lazy I am to be laying on my lawn while they are apart of what protects my family from the wild, and from each other. Two bushes almost block the gaze of the two peering window-eyes, and so I close my own eyes, watch as orange turns into yellow turns into red turns into blue under my eyelids and pretend that nothing else is there.

Nothing. Not the two bushes, two windows, two skies, two feet, two legs, two arms, two hands. All too reflective. I have to constantly remind myself that nothing is "too" anything, that there can be no two of anything. I can look in a mirror everyday and still get unnerved seeing myself on camera; I can sing all I want in the shower and still not recognize my own recording.

I can write all of this and still not know what I think, but at the end of it, it's all really the same as before. Everything must be the same whether or not I'm around (the sun, the colors, the house, the eyes), and that's the beautiful privilege of Being.

These words are for no one in particular, not even myself. It's just the energy I must release, the thoughts I must unveil a bit to prove (to even the inanimate, yet sturdy, walls of my house) that I'm not completely lazy, that I'm not completely dumb, that my existence is more than taking up volume, an extra body, an extra mouth to feed....

If anything more than the body in which I'm contained, I am now the few minutes you have spent reading. Even though wrapped up still in the thoughts that I believe to be "too" melodramatic to be tolerated by anything/one but open space, it feels good to let go of an arrow of thought in the aims of hitting a red center.