I am under the influence of a powerful narcotic. Am I alive or dead? Alive? How can I tell? Dead? How can I know? Are not both conditions one and the same? I was stillborn; that is, I was delivered dead, without breath, without pulse. When I was old enough to understand, I was told that doctors worked for many long minutes to give me life. And now I believe I am alive. But how do I know the doctors revived me? Might I not someday learn that life is a middling dream and, in truth, that I did not survive and that I am only awake-sleeping and dreaming? I do not wish to examine my dreaming too closely lest I discover there something I do not wish to know. I am ignorant of absolute truth. Truth lies just behind that door, in the next room. But I have lost the key and I am reluctant to search for it. And, so, I remain blind and deaf and dumb. Do not whisper reasons in my ear. Do not explain life and death. I do not wish to know. Do you ever wonder who-or what-is dreaming your life?
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