product of a tired head

the world is at once exhausting and unrelenting and ephemeral.
imagine.
we were all young once.
we all forgot.
and the more we try to remember, the more elusive the memories are.
sometimes i wonder if people exist outside my head.
sometimes i think they may as well not.
after all, people to me are only what they seem.
what they look like, smell like, sound like, act like, feel like.
i only have five senses.
how am i supposed to truly know another human based solely on an often gravely self-misunderstood interpretation:
my own?
one minute, the people in my head seem to have sorted out all the files on a person, and they come to a consensus that that surprisingly distant individual has nothing more to be gained from, that there is nothing new to be gleaned from their daily machinations, that i have their persona fully documented, referenced, cited, organized, condensed, and elucidated once and for all.
the next, the entire system goes up in flames.
silly silly me, thinking anyone or anything can be predicted.