I am stuck between a painful beginning and end, the vast imbetween of life and death, an enescapable labyrnth of vivid dream and vauge reality. im not quite sure if were i am exists of if im mearly stuck in this odd inbetween. please if you can see this remind me of my state, am i real in this world, is there anyone really out there, or am i forever trapped in the solitute of my mind. space is the paradox of existance but i am trapped in a never ending expansion of it very step I take only leads me deeper into the fog, where the world feels both too real and yet intangible, as though it’s slipping away the moment I try to grasp it. The sense of time here is warped—neither forward nor backward, just stretched, like a thin thread barely holding the weight of my thoughts, pulling me in directions I can’t quite understand. I don’t know if the space I occupy truly exists, or if I am merely drifting, suspended between some otherworldly place and the fragments of my own mind. Am I here, or am I lost somewhere in the folds of my own consciousness? It’s as if I’m caught in the pulse of a world that is too loud, too full, but also distant, just out of reach. I can feel it—life, reality, something—but it flickers, like an image half-formed in a dream, where things shift in and out of focus, never quite solidifying into something I can hold onto. There are moments, fleeting but sharp, when I wonder if I am more than just a thought, a shadow on the edge of existence. I reach out, but the space between my hand and the world around me feels endless. It’s like I’m staring into a vast void, waiting for a response, waiting for proof that I’m not simply an echo lost in the expanse of my mind. Is this world real? Am I real in it, or have I become lost in an illusion of my own making? I speak to the silence, but it speaks back only in echoes, as though I’m trapped in a conversation with myself, unable to find another voice to reassure me, to remind me that the ground beneath me is solid, that the air I breathe is not just a figment of my own desires. The questions keep coming, relentless and raw—Am I trapped here forever? Forever alone in the labyrinth of my thoughts, forever cut off from the world I once knew, or the world I think I might still know? Is anyone really out there? Does anyone feel as I do, caught between the suffocating weight of an unknown beginning and an inevitable end, where every moment is a question without an answer? And if they do, will I ever be able to find them? Or will I remain forever in this place, this "in-between," where nothing feels real and everything seems just out of reach? I am stuck between a painful beginning and end, the vast in-between of life and death, an inescapable labyrinth of vivid dream and vague reality. Each breath I take feels like it’s caught in suspension, lingering between what has passed and what is yet to come, and yet neither of those moments seems to hold true meaning. It’s as if I’m standing at the threshold of something, but the door is locked, and the key is buried somewhere just beyond my reach. The world around me shimmers, a half-formed illusion, where colors are too bright, too sharp, then fade into shadows without warning. There’s a sense of movement, of change, but it’s imperceptible—like the tide pulling at my feet when I’m too distracted to notice. I reach out, but the reality I try to touch slips away, dissolving into a fog of uncertainty. The ground beneath me feels both solid and fleeting, as though the very earth is shifting with every step I take, and I wonder: Am I really here? The more I try to anchor myself in this place, the more it seems to pull away, leaving me adrift in an ocean of doubt. Am I trapped in some kind of suspended animation, a dreamer who cannot wake, a soul caught in the space between thought and existence? I can't tell if this is real or if I am merely a wisp of consciousness, lingering in the crevice between one life and the next, one reality and another. The sharpness of my thoughts, the clarity with which I question my surroundings, makes me feel as though I should be able to understand, to grasp something, anything that might prove I am not lost. But the more I search, the more elusive everything becomes. Even the certainty of my own self seems fragile, as if it could shatter like glass with the slightest disturbance. I feel as if I am looking at the world through a fogged window—everything appears familiar, yet distant, out of focus. People, places, moments—they flicker like dreams that can’t quite hold form, like they’re part of something that no longer belongs to me. The questions pile up, one after another, relentless: Am I real? I ask. Does this world exist, or am I simply imagining it? When I look around, I wonder if I see only what I want to see, if the faces I pass are real or just projections of my own need for connection. I try to speak to others, to reach out, but I wonder if anyone truly hears me, or if my words are swallowed by the silence of a place where no one else exists. Maybe I am the only one in this in-between, forever isolated in a cage of my own perception, forever circling a question that has no answer. There are moments—fleeting, but sharp—when I feel the pull of something larger, something that is both outside and inside me, as if I am on the cusp of understanding but cannot cross the threshold. And in those moments, I wonder: If I can feel it, does that mean it’s real? Or is it merely the echo of something lost? The sensation of connection is there, like a soft hum under the surface, but it fades as quickly as it comes, leaving me feeling more alone than before. I begin to question everything: What if this is all there is? What if I am not part of the world at all, but a figment of it, trapped in the solitary confinement of my own mind? The in-between is a place of infinite echoes, where I speak and wait for a response, but the response never comes. It’s a silence that presses in on me from every side, a vast emptiness that reflects my deepest fears—fears that I am alone, that I am adrift, and that I may never break free from this fog, from this labyrinth of doubt. But then, in the quiet, I wonder: Is the silence a sign of my isolation, or is it a space where something greater is trying to make itself known? What if this in-between is not a prison, but a place of transformation, where I am being shaped by the very uncertainty that surrounds me? What if this moment, this strange state of being lost, is the key to something beyond my understanding—something deeper than the limits of my own perception? Still, I search. I reach into the void, hoping to grasp something that will make sense of all this. And yet, I am left with nothing but more questions, like an infinite spiral leading me deeper into the unknown. Each step I take feels like it is both a step forward and a step deeper into the maze. And I wonder: Is this what it means to be real? To live not in certainty, but in the tension between knowing and not knowing? Between being and becoming? Perhaps I will never find the answers I seek, but in that very search, perhaps I am becoming something else—something that exists in the space where the beginning and the end are indistinguishable, where life and death blur into one continuous thread, ever unfolding, ever searching, ever lost, and ever found.