Vacant Reality

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Serge Bulat

Serge Bulat is a musical artist known for his unique blend of electronic music, incorporating elements of various genres such as classical, jazz, and hip-hop. His music often features intricate melodies, atmospheric soundscapes, and thought-provoking lyrics. Serge Bulat's experimental approach to music production has led to the creation of distinct and captivating compositions that push the boundaries of traditional genres. more »

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Reality. 
Strange beast. 
Obeys no one.
Fools you with appearance. 
Convincing truth of ultimate truth. 
Why make reality relative? 
Why moving from one to another, makes more sense than sinking in the present? 
Why is it exciting? 
Why peace seems incomplete? 

Some could be confusing and misleading, many can eradicate doubts about my own existence. 
My own indeed, for, there is an unknown number of empty rooms that can be occupied by others. 

What is a dream to me, might be routine and boredom to you, what seems Einsteinian to you, might be my distinctive ugly scar, a dreadful experience from childhood, that makes one create pearls from garbage. 

What is the difference between memories, fantasies, dreams, meditation, brain speculation and art? 
Which one could be called true reality? 
All of them, or none? 

When I look at myself I see a person, but should I see God? 
Should I see a condemned realist? 
Should I feel love or just universal oneness, whatever that might feel? 

Why would I dream of an unknown, unmapped land when the world around me has the right to survive? 
 
Should I despise spirituality or question science? 
Where is the middle ground here?
Why am I me and not You or Her or Him? 
How come I'm You and not me? 

Difference between the brain and mirror? 
Similarities between fish and a chair? 
Am I as atomized as your smile? 
Why am I dead while You are so alive? 

Why do you crave sex, while oceans are bluer than skies, and wind makes me hyper and drugged? 
What the hell are the doors to perception? 

There is no need for philosophy while your stomach breaks down a slice of pizza, nor there is wisdom in thoughts of living a humble, not poor life, while you f*ck the most expensive bitch in town. 
Is she real, or is your money makes her real and appealing? 

Where is that place under the stars and which star is home? 
Why am I stuck here on this silly planet while the hippopotamus of multiverse is bathing in the waters of probabilities? 
Possible? 
Making realities within vast emptiness, while nothing and zero is an understatement of the other side.

New realities? 
There is nothing new, everything already happened, the time is an ugly master who creates a pretty puppet for its own liking.

But why claim there is nothing new when I’ve never even seen the moon? 
Or Oklahoma for that matter.

There are no excuses, nor there a coherent reason to brand oneself not belonging anywhere. 
Am I too Moldovan?
Well, I'm quite sure I’ve never felt that way while living in my hometown. 
But was it even home? 
Wherever it is. 
Wherever here is. 
Whatever real is? 
Whichever shape and form I take to accommodates my needs. 

But, all the grandscaleness aside, where is this home? 
Where is home? 
Where is my home?

Do I Exist?

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