Have you ever thought that you were just a character in someones book? That the people with the super interesting lives are the main characters, the people with unelaborate lives are secondary characters, and people with positively boring lives are minor characters? That your character is always growing-evolving- as the story goes on? That we all might be figments of some random authors imagination? That, with the stroke of a pen, the click of a key, our entire existence could change, end, or restart completely differently? That if the author gives up on the story, that is the day we die?
Maybe that's all people are. Maybe we don't really exist. LIke, as John Green says in one of his books, that we really are made of paper.