Writer's Error

Section from a new piece I'm working on...

I was wrong, there is a One. A lonely me. This book is about me and only me; interactions from my life. Unique irises and fingerprints make cameos, but I will not pretend to understand or know their experiences and feelings. ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ is merely a fact relevant and true to any two people at any time. We are shaped by life experiences, and our life experiences are shaped by human interaction. Our minds make assumptions, or draw conclusions based on past experiences. No matter how convincing an argument, inevitably what we say will fall victim to our listener’s past experiences. Not only that, our arguments are victims of our own pasts. Does that mean I’m looking for a proof that doesn’t exist? Our whole lives are made up of contradiction. Is awareness of contradiction absolution from it? Perhaps convincing another oxygen sponge of something is all we have.

These are the set of factors which limit our ability to truly understand no another. But the main contributing factor is this. These 26 characters with 40 phonetic sounds are our limiting enemies.

My central example: “The only truth is that there is no truth.” I’d like to think this is true. I’m sure you can think of more, but the preceding paradox is proof of how powerfully pathetic our practice of proofs prove to present. No one will ever truly know anyone else. I think I’m good with that. I don’t think you’ll understand me by reading this. Just as with life, things will inevitably be left out. I can hope, however, that you’ll see yourself in some of my stories. Then I’ll inevitably say or do something that you won’t agree with. You’ll feel betrayed. Thought betrayal.