I need attention to confirm my own presence.

I trail along the shores and watch the water, the foamy waves playing with my toes, a nonsensical game of tag. The sunset so brilliant in the sapphire sky, the clouds scattered across this endless roof over my head, a cushion for the stars if the milky way were to collapse, landing onto those wisps of comfort, showering me with a million lights.

I walk along the city and stare at the neon and chrome, the bright lights look so inviting from a distance, but so impersonal up close. The tall buildings intimidate those who are not familiar, but is just a reminder of home for those who are. No stars here, just the artificial light clogging up the skyline. No clouds in sight, just a black stretch of mass over my head.

Standing here, on this beach, in this city.

Are the footsteps in the sand evidence of my existence?
That I can be here, that I am here? That I breathe and feel?
Are we considered alive if the rest of the world passes by without even noticing us?
Do we still exist if we have no purpose to anyone, if we have no purpose for ourselves?
What makes us present? What makes us exist?

Not life, certainly. But belonging.