death of a greeter

Standing idly behind a desk, he thinks of the Cold War. He thinks of skyscrapers. He thinks of things all day. Really, he does. He knows it doesn't look as though he is, but his brain knows the truth. His brain knows that its full of things, many things. Each step he takes, everyday, he thinks of something. Of this he is sure. He can think of several recent thoughts he has had, in fact. No one can take that away from him; no one can tell him otherwise. Its concrete. It is as sure as the desk he stands behind, if not surer, for he has created the thoughts. They have ballooned in his brain containing various subjects and he knows they are valid. If they were not real, he couldn't have thought them. Or of that. He knew things, and you couldn't know anything without having thoughts, and he knew that as well. Circuitous perhaps but definite evidence of thought.

The desk, he supposed, could be an optical illusion. It was, after all, just made of tiny molecules. The desk, the air, his shoes, all of it existed. Nothing existed so surely as thought, though. It was comforting to him to know that he was capable of thought. He would always exist so long as this was true.

He gave himself over completely to thought and ceased to be as the desk and his shoes and the air. Could anyone notice the change? He was completely unaware of any physical component to his existence, but he did not cease to be. His thoughts overtook him and he was more real than ever before. Energy from everywhere overwhelmed him as he surrendered to his brain's control. The desk, the shoes, the air remained now for they remained in his thoughts. Things became static, changing, bending to his will. Bright light shone through every crack in his new reality. He neither rose nor fell as everything came to life and ceased to be. It was the end of nothing and the beginning of everything. His body collapsed to the ground behind the desk. His body would never cease to be, but it would never be the same. He cannot describe his existence now, but he can confirm it. His thoughts continue, melded to the universe, a beautiful and significant white noise