I fear I may not be able to afford the illusions necessary to sustain my identity as a "cognizant sentient organism made of meat."
Well, it is all so-utterly-complicated and beyond my personal control, what, with the stench of the socks, one soon requires a washing machine, plumbing, you know, a sewage disposal system, electric wires, cables for Internet, refrigerator, oven, heating and air-conditioning. Who can afford these requirements, and if so, for how long?
I wish to apply Husserl's phenomenological reduction, but I can't shake this continuous urgency my body has for consuming eggs, bread, potatoes, beans, peanut butter (yummilicious), bananas, not to mention coffee and tobacco; and then a just as urgent, if not even more urgent, demand to "poop" out the gargantuan log of dung.
Do I need the title "mathematics enthusiast" or "existential philosopher of doom" to mask [persona] the ugly details of this breathing hunk of flesh and bones? Without the anthropomorphic "human" meaning, without the physical structure of the house and the food trucked into the stores and stocked on shelves, the Illusion comes to a halt and I, along with so many others, am left this desparate helpless animal, like exotic plants in need of a hothouse in the winter.
Too long for an aphorism?