What's in a Room?

An object in my room? I am in my room. Am I an object? Am I in my room or is my room in me? Is it a construct of my mind or am I a construct of it? How do I know? How do we know? How do you know? Questions, questions, answers, answers. Are any of them real? “To be, or not to be?” What is “be”? That is the question to me. Is there life? Is there death? Or is it all in my head? Could it all be in someone else’s head? Am I in someone else’s head? What am “I”? What is “it”? Is it all a joke or is any of it real? Where does it begin? Where does it end? Does it end? Can it end? Is there a when? Should I even care? Or should I just call myself the who and the what? Establish my beginning as the when? Disregard the where and only ponder the why? But, then, why the other questions? Could it be, that I am real? For why would the room think so much of me? And why would I think so much of others and they of me? Unless, of course, we’re all part of something bigger? Can it be?

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