“When you touch things you touch them as if they’re real.”

I didn’t understand what you meant. I still don’t. But I asked anyways. I wanted you to tell me it meant I stood out among millions. That it meant I was special. I wanted it to somehow mean that I had a sort of shine. that maybe, I was more human than all this wretched cattle. I wanted you to tell me it made everyone see me, that no one else could ever be what I was, that inside of me was a secret answer to some unspoken question, a certain way about me that maybe meant… that meant something, anything. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, was to know that maybe I meant something. But to who? But what? But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore…

I touched things as if they were real, does that mean I was real? Or that to me, the world was.