The World Exists Only When I Look

 

The bar rarely changes. The bottles stay frozen in time unless I ask for something. Then the illusion shifts, just enough to keep me believing.

JOURNAL ENTRY 1

The system is rigged. Could it be a simulation? And if it is, how would it work? And if so then does that mean that something like “fortune” exists and controls the outcomes?

I do believe this is a prison of sorts: our lives.

As I’m writing this, I got a text from Tana. She never texts. A distraction cause I’m writing this? Maybe or maybe a coincidence. Or both. If fortune’s got hands, it probably reaches in right when the thoughts start to get dangerous. Right when I’m getting somewhere. That’s when the phone buzzes, or someone walks in, or a car alarm goes off. It’s always something.

I’m starting to realize that nothing exists until we acknowledge that it exists. A tree which fell in the forest only makes a sound if someone hears it. I would argue that tree in the forest would only exist if someone was aware of its existence. Would this be an arrogant thought on my part? Absolutely, but I’m the center of my reality.

Maybe things exist in my world because they’ve existed in past versions of my world. Take for example, I’m sitting at a bar that has a limited amount of liquor options. Why am I aware of all those options? Well obviously because I’ve seen it, yet there is a bottle of popular whisky, Crown Royal, that seems to be at the same amount until I ask for it. Then the amount changes naturally but it stays at the amount I left it until I ask for another drink on another day. It is quite a popular Canadian whiskey.

That bottle is a marker for something. The way it just sits there, undisturbed, until I ask for it. It’s like a prop. Everything might be a prop. Maybe the bartender too. Maybe the guy two stools down. Maybe none of them do anything unless I look. Unless I speak. Like background characters in a video game. Frozen until the main character gets close enough.

I think therefore I am… that’s its. What our mind perceives as being, at the time it perceives it, at that moment, the thing exists. It’s almost like quantum mechanics. Something exists when I can confirm its existence. This has to be a rule in our simulation.

The rule might be: observation triggers reality. That’s it. That’s the core loop. Not birth, death, taxes, or gravity. Just observation. When I look, it is. When I don’t, it isn’t.

If I walk out of the bar right now and head east, would the road only stretch out in front of me once I begin walking? Is it already there? Or does the world build itself just ahead of my footsteps, like planks falling into place one by one?

I’ve always had this sense that things feel too staged. The lighting is always just right. Even the imperfections feel curated. A smudge on the bar that looks like a fingerprint from some noir film. The way the ceiling fan clicks every third turn. These aren’t just random—they feel designed.

But designed by what?

That’s where the mind starts to melt a little. Because if this is a simulation, then someone—or something—had to write it. Or maybe it wasn’t written. Maybe it’s self-generating. A system that builds itself as it runs. No coder. Just code.

Then again, if it’s code, there’s still structure. Still logic. Still boundaries. Which means it can break. That’s the part that keeps me awake some nights. Wondering what happens when I get too close to the edge. What happens if I look where I’m not supposed to look.

I’ve seen glitches. I’ve seen people freeze for a second too long. I’ve seen numbers repeat in unnatural ways. I once looked at the clock and it was 3:33. Then again the next day. And the next. Until it wasn’t. Then I started seeing 4:44 instead.

That shift didn’t feel random. It felt like someone—or something—flipped the setting. Or maybe I moved into a different layer. I don’t know what to call it. A version? A corridor? A copy?

And it’s not just clocks. Sometimes it’s people. They say things they’ve already said before. Verbatim. Same words. Same rhythm. Same pauses. Not just once or twice. I’ve watched entire conversations repeat with different faces. Like the script gets recycled.

It makes you wonder how much memory they think we’re using. Maybe most people don’t notice. Maybe they’re not meant to. But when you do notice, when you stop and say, “Wait, haven’t I seen this before?” That’s when the simulation sends you distractions.

Hence Tana.

She texts only when I’m deep in thought. It’s like clockwork. She’s part of the pattern. I don’t think she knows. Maybe she doesn’t exist outside of when she’s texting me. That’s a wild thought, but think about it—how many people exist in your life only in relation to you? When you’re not talking to them, do they continue living? Or do they pause? Wait for your next prompt?

I wouldn’t have believed this years ago. But now? The more I pay attention, the less I trust the solidity of anything.

Even memories. I’m starting to question them. Not whether they’re real, but whether they were ever mine. Maybe some of them are planted. Preloaded to give context. Maybe I wasn’t a child. Maybe I began two years ago with a full backstory uploaded into my head. Parents. Teachers. Old music. All scaffolding.

And why not?

A simulation doesn’t need a full history. Just enough to give you footing. Enough illusion to keep you from asking too many questions. Just enough nostalgia to keep you sentimental and compliant.

Even dreams feel more like downloads now. File transfers while I sleep. I wake up remembering places I’ve never been. And the strange thing is, they feel more real than the waking world. That scares me. Because if the dreams feel real and the waking world feels off, maybe I’ve got it backwards. Maybe sleep is the real world. Maybe this is the dream.

I’ve even caught myself touching things to make sure they’re there. The table, the bar, the glass in my hand. But just because I feel it doesn’t mean it’s real. It just means the simulation is responding to my touch.

What’s more disturbing is how predictable everything is when you start seeing it. You think people have free will, but they don’t. Not really. They follow loops. They say the same things. Ask the same questions. Get angry in the same way. They’re like code. Variables inside of variables.

Even my own reactions feel scripted sometimes. I’ll get mad and halfway through the anger I realize I’m not even choosing it. It’s just happening. Playing out. And then I’m watching myself go through the motions.

So if I'm not fully in control, then who is?

Maybe no one. Maybe it’s just the system playing itself. An echo of something that once had meaning and now just runs.

Or maybe fortune is the ghost in the machine. Not fate. Not destiny. Just the pattern that fills in the blanks when no one’s looking. The thing that decides which song plays next on the jukebox. Which face appears at the door. Whether you get the job or miss the train. Fortune doesn’t care if it’s fair. It’s not moral. It’s mechanical. Like a dice roll with personality.

That’s why I don’t trust coincidences anymore. Every time I say something out loud, it shows up. Sometimes in minutes. Sometimes hours. But it comes. The name. The idea. The exact phrase. It’s not magic. It’s the rendering engine. It’s just doing what it’s told: manifesting what’s on my mind.

Which means I have to be careful what I think.

Because if thought summons reality, then even the smallest fear can become a real problem. The system doesn’t know the difference between desire and dread. It just hears the signal and builds.

That could explain why so many people are always getting what they’re trying to avoid. They’re broadcasting fear and the system responds. Not because it’s evil. Just because it’s obedient.

So what if I stop broadcasting?

What if I go silent?

What happens if I sit still long enough, don’t think about anything, and just exist?

Does the world shut down? Do the lights dim? Do the people fade?

I’ve tried it. At home. I sat in the dark for hours. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just breathed. And I swear I could feel the world go soft. The sounds outside got muffled. The air itself felt thinner. Like the system went into standby mode. Waiting for me to engage.

And then the phone rang.

Of course it did.

It’s always the phone.

Maybe that’s the real interface. The device. The link. Maybe the phone is how the simulation pulls you back in. Keeps you engaged. Keeps you distracted.

And that brings me back to the Crown Royal.

I asked for another pour earlier and watched the bartender reach for the bottle. It was full again. I swear it. I watched it drain the last time I was here. But today, full. Not a scratch on the label. Not a drip on the rim. A reset.

And it didn’t faze her. She poured like nothing was strange. Maybe she didn’t notice. Or maybe she’s part of the reset too.

I keep coming back here because I want to catch it in the act. I want to see the reset happen. I want to be here when the simulation blinks. When it stutters. When something forgets what it was supposed to be.

But maybe I already have.

Maybe the blinking is constant and we’re too slow to see it.

Maybe all of this is flickering in and out at a speed beyond our perception, and what we call "now" is just one stabilized frame in a never-ending slide show.

I think I'm going to stay here a little longer tonight.

I want to see what happens when the place empties out. I want to see if the chairs stay where they are. If the shadows behave. If the bartender vanishes when I close my eyes.

And if she does, I don’t know if that’ll scare me or comfort me.

Either way, I’ll write it down.

Because maybe that’s the only real act of rebellion left.

To notice.

To name.

To mark the moment before it disappears.