Would you be called a liar? Would you be declared mad?
If a word exists in the English lexicon for a fundamental, even existential sensations of wrongness, I haven’t found it. But that word would describe the phenomena.
To look up at the sky, and watch. And as stars consume your senses, you hear something. A conversation not meant for your ears. A debate not meant for mankind.
Or perhaps you found yourself on the stage, standing before a grand sentinel of empty seats. Your breath echoes off the vaulted ceiling. You turn behind you to the curtain. To peel back that red fabric and peak behind it, you glimpse that thing.
Indescribable. Liar. Madman.
What you see and what you hear, those things do not exist. Cannot exist. Because existence would demand something you cannot give.
I no longer listen to the night sky, and I no longer look behind the curtain.