“What is real?” is the kind of question which, when you ask it (or even when someone in the room asks it) makes your eyes glass over, like closing a second, clear eyelid. It makes you recede into that blank, blackish space inside your mind where “concepts” live, and you try to imagine something inside that space that isn’t really in that space or anywhere else, which is silly.
In everyday life, we talk about thousands of millions of things, and we talk about everything about those thousand million things — except their existence or non-existence. We only talk about the existence of something when we have nothing else to say about it.
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