The world gave birth to me, and back into the world I shall return when my life is ended. My body as stuff. Brute matter, the motion of molecules. It makes no sense, it doesn't add up, it can't be contingent and it can't be necessary, I've said all this.
This isn't about a Berkeleian virtual reality game, the conjurer behind the scenes tirelessly (reliably) keeping up appearances, for no purpose (the demiurge of nature). When I picture the evil demon, I imagine all the eyes and faces of all the people who have ever existed. The others. No sacred Other, no partner in ethical dialogue, no Thou (nor an It), just all of you.
Without intending to, I've stumbled across a new and terrifying version of the problem of Other Minds. I am not alone. It's worse than that. Solitude I can accept. No, I am the specimen in the cage, the object of idle curiosity, the last human being alive the only human being who has ever existed but I am not alone. (The philosopher in a glass house. Ha!)
This isn't much to do with philosophy or metaphysics but I said that I would allow feeling to have its say. It may not be valid as argument or dialectic, but it has value as symptom if nothing else. An intimation of something I can't quite articulate (something worse, even than this?).
Certainly, the struggle has become personal. I feel a force resisting me, not malevolent, just cold and indifferent. The world goes on in its ridiculous way. 'Who are all those people?' The muttering, babbling hordes, the unconscious ones. They, who do not even know that they exist. (Yeats: 'And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?' Why did I think of that?)