While it is not truly me, it is the way you like to think of me.
Ernest Hemingway
Perception, consciousness, awareness,
the stuff of life
to hear philosophers tell it.
Descartes believed his thoughts
made him real, gave him existence.
But he would say that, wouldn’t he?
Because we are all certain that we think.
And we all aspire to be real.
Yet sometimes, when I’m alone,
I can’t help but wonder.
Could I prove that I’m real
if called upon to do so?
Real in a strict mathematical sense.
So real that no objective observer
could deny it.
I can be seen, but sight
Is nothing but electrical signals.
I can be heard, but sound
is just waves wiggling about.
I can be felt,
but can you really trust your fingertips?
As we approach this bold new age
in which anything can be faked,
how can you prove your existence
even to yourself, much less to others?
I cannot prove I wrote this poem,
any more than you can prove
that you heard it or read it.
Absent all of that, how can we be sure
that it even exists?