boredom

What if time really is an illusion. All these memories of change are false, implanted. All the world is stiff, solid. Staid. There is only now. This moment; this instant. There is no need for seconds. No breathing. There is no reason to separate, demarcate. No lineation without motion. No trends or observations. There is only this. The is. The present stands alone, forever. We exist, but never live. We are, but never will be or were. This is it. And still is. And still is. You're not reading, only being. I'm not writing, only dreaming. I'm not here or I'm only here. Reality is stone and so am I.