Why this world isn't illusion.

This is my 151st post. How very interesting.

"Illusions can kill if used with skill, but fake healing is only a feeling."
- something from somewhere that's stuck with me most of my life.

"This world is just illusion, trying to change you."
- a song.

"What if everything you lived for, was an elaborate dream?"
- another song.

I'm going to be as raw as I possibly can be in this post. I am not going to postulate about the nature of reality, because I could produce endless, rambling posts on that topic that wouldn't prove anything. Hell, I could probably prove to logical satisfaction (my own, at any rate) that existence is a dream and all that we see is as fleeting as mist in a bucket.

But I'm not going to do that. Instead I'm going to set out what's running through my head at the moment.

There's this heavy emphasis on piercing the illusion that masks our lives and the nature of our existence these days. People on drugs and religious people are the prime offenders, but there are others who seek to pierce the fog that veils the true purpose of humanity or whatever it is they are saying they are doing. Most of them say that true understanding lies somehow outside the body, that the secrets of the universe can be unlocked by ethereal experimentation or communcation, and that all can be understood if we just open our minds to outside influences.
To put my position at this point in time quite clearly -
Fuck. That.
Everything I am is encased in my skull and operates through a very intense system, a system completely beyond my comprehension - but here's the important thing, identifiable. I'll put it in simple terms. Remove my brain, and I cease to be. Most other organs can be augmented or replaced. The brain cannot be. Ergo, I am my brain. Sure, there might be a 'soul' or something that is part of me that I am not capable of accessing or controlling while I'm alive - but I know for a fact that right now, I am my brain. Physically, I am that grey matter in my head. Looking outside my head for who I am ultimately is pointless.
As for fulfillment, that couldn't be simpler either. When I hunger, I eat (sometimes, anyway, my body being a fickle creature). When I lust, there are ways of dealing with that too. When I am cold, I clothe myself. When I am hot, I sweat. For every desire, emotion, need and want, I have the tools to meet those demands upon my brain - my shell makes demands of my self, and in turn the shell satisfies the self. A good meal and a pretty boy will cause me to be happy. Wielding power - an entirely physical insitution - makes me fulfilled. These reactions are real, as real I as I myself am. If I am not real, the nature of the world isn't important - but I do believe that I myself am real. I think, therefore I am, blah blah blah.
I'm rambling. I'll try to simplify again.
I am real. Therefore, the things that satisfy and fulfill me are real. Those things have physical groundings. Therefore, the phsyical world is real.
I have sex, I eat food, I feel happy, the world is real.
I get punched in the face, I lose a lover, I am mocked, I am sad, the world is real.
Fuck looking elsewhere for meaning.

For now, anyway.