we are what we do. not even, we are what other people think we do. to them. to those other people, those people that we care about (usually) and who we (usually) want to care about us, it’s what they think we’ve done that matters. but i never really know what you think of me. and neither do you. i have had a million thoughts that none of you will ever know. i have seen a million beautiful sights, and a million ugly ones. everything essentially alone, because we are what we know. the more you know me, the more you are me. spiritual union can come from knowledge. even the most radically un-philosophical buddhist would agree that the enlightened are united to all of us through shared knowledge. the blatant fact of our disociation from each other frustrates me. i know i will never truly understand you. i might understand most of you, maybe we will share unspeakable thoughts for a few brief moments, we might come as close as it is possible for two different groupings of psychosis and stability to be, but you will never know me. Most people never get beyond crude charicatures, the greatest have perhaps achieved an understanding of one another bordering on monet’s appreciation for his environment. everything is built from those random pieces of insight we shape from half-noticed gestures, partially-understood actions, reinterpreted conversations.
when i was five or six i wanted to be the best spy in america, because i was sure that he would know the most about what was really going on in the world. i went through the various political offices after that and eventually decided that i wanted to be a scientist. eventually i lost my appetite for science, it’s interesting to be sure, but i don’t care and really, i never did. the only things that have ever really mattered to me are people, and you are probably the most confusing entity in existence. i don’t care about the machinations of those who think that they’re in power, i don’t care about how this whole fucking universe is put together or where it comes from or where it’s going. i don’t really care about any of the toys science has made for my consumption. hell, i only care about consumerism insofar as it makes people stupid. they’re all just avenues of distraction. bright lights and bushy tails. cat food and psychosis. i think that i don’t want to be alone, but i don’t know what that means. i know that there has got to be something better than what we’ve got right now, …. well, probably anyway.
I don’t know who i am. i don’t mean that as some pseudo-psychological bullshit, i mean it as pseudo-philosophical bullshit. i don’t know which part of me is important. i don’t know if the things that i don’t say would be better said, or the things i say better left unsaid. I don’t know if i have ever done the right thing. But more importantly, i don’t think i have ever expressed my thoughts in a meaningful way. Completely aside from my ego’s desire to be understood, this makes me feel terrifyingly alone. I’m not bitching about nobody understanding me…
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