Or it’s just me that does.
10.20
Perhaps the most pervasive sadness of our small and relatively short lives is the way we always manage to posture ourselves, just so, to make it impossible for any one person to actually, wholly know us.
We marginalize and compartmentalize the facts so minutely that it eventually becomes insurmountable to unveil absolutely all of it to even our most intimate of friends, lovers, family. We dole ourselves out in increments, giving little bits here and inconsequential admissions there, leaving it to our counterparts to fill in the gaps and build their own ideas of who we are. Maybe it’s more manageable this way, never giving up the whole truth absolves us, in a way, when we feel frustrated or misunderstood. The assurance that we are always right because if only someone had all the information we possess they would have no choice but to see it for what it is is. Our own reality. The only reality.
This is the greatest catch 22 of our modern age. Using the mass amount of irrelevant data available to hid ourselves further, to mix and cloud and bury the tiniest parts that we let carry weight, while we still live out our endless, exhausting search for the one, that one, who can sift it all. Who can know without knowing. Who’s worth wading thru it for yourself.
