Because my brain hasn’t received any external stimuli other than noise for years, it invents its own stimuli.

 Because my brain hasn’t received any external stimuli other than noise for years, it invents its own stimuli and, in order to survive, treats them as if they were real at any cost. I remember my dreams better than my waking experiences because they are the only things that feel worthy of remembering. And because nothing there addresses me, the outside world fails to hold my interest. Outside, always the same things—that is, the same faces, the same voices, the same conversations, the same behaviors, the same routines—await me. Inside me, beyond even the whole universe being mine, I am utterly replacing this universe with my own universe. And this one had never felt this self-celebrating compared to the other. By making this my life, I reached the limits of perception. I thought so much about reality and consciousness, and I cut through and examined them so thoroughly that, in the end, they lost their forms and liquefied.