I Wonder

How am I existing? In the space between watching a Times video and writing something, what exists? This body, this consciousness. Shall I have something to eat? Why do anything? Who is doing it? Suddenly I wonder, then again. I itch. I breathe. I am still. Silence is a roaring in my ears, the slow rhythmic puff of the oxygen concentrator, the rustling of my movements in the chair, a peep from my stomach. Do I exist by writing? How does it help?