Extreme-ly sensitive

I fluctuate between the extremes. I don’t have a grey area. The closest I come to one is when I see the possible paths I could’ve lived. I only see them in the moments they’re possible. Possibilities aren’t static in reality. They metamorphose. The abstract is static and colorless. Color isn’t abstract. It’s felt and just like everything we feel, it’s real.

We see branching pathways but that’s not how reality works. It’s seamless. The whole concept of infinitely branching realities is unfinished. Like all concepts, it’s redundant. What is the purpose of Thought if it’s incomplete? Why is it there?

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