I Want To Write My Random Thoughts And Feelings
There really is no conceivable, satisfactory way in which I'll ever be able to explain or describe the realisations and epiphanies I've had along my journey. If I could articulate even a small percentage of them to an adequate standard, I'd still be selling them impossibly short and reducing the sum of what they are to nothing but a word soup - a spate of empty, lifeless words on a computer screen which only I will ever intuitively understand anyway. This byzantine mystery I call my mind, is nobody's mystery but my own. And quite the mystery it is.
The things I've learnt - my experiences, my feelings, and all my thoughts, each and every one of them - will only ever be meaningful or explainable to me alone, and it will always be this way. There's no way around it. This is the part about being a singular consciousness which seems to herald a perpetual aloneness, of sorts: the absolute knowing that everything about me, the essence of who I am, of who I *know* I am, is locked away with the walls of my own mind, my own being, and that no one can ever really "see" what I'm saying or "see" what I'm experiencing, other than myself. I am my own journey. My own story.
I communicate myself to others, and I relay the underlying thoughts and feelings that I have, but the only way in which they can ever understand me - and will understand me - is by accessing their own set of thoughts and feelings and associating my outward expressions with their own. I interact with my own versions of others, in my reality. And they, too, interact with their version of me, in theirs. An interconnected, interwoven solipsism. It's miraculous. It's absolutely fascinating. And it's also beautiful, if you understand the implications.
I really just want someone to share my internal world with. "A single soul in two bodies". She is out there somewhere. Whoever she is. Wherever she is...
The things I've learnt - my experiences, my feelings, and all my thoughts, each and every one of them - will only ever be meaningful or explainable to me alone, and it will always be this way. There's no way around it. This is the part about being a singular consciousness which seems to herald a perpetual aloneness, of sorts: the absolute knowing that everything about me, the essence of who I am, of who I *know* I am, is locked away with the walls of my own mind, my own being, and that no one can ever really "see" what I'm saying or "see" what I'm experiencing, other than myself. I am my own journey. My own story.
I communicate myself to others, and I relay the underlying thoughts and feelings that I have, but the only way in which they can ever understand me - and will understand me - is by accessing their own set of thoughts and feelings and associating my outward expressions with their own. I interact with my own versions of others, in my reality. And they, too, interact with their version of me, in theirs. An interconnected, interwoven solipsism. It's miraculous. It's absolutely fascinating. And it's also beautiful, if you understand the implications.
I really just want someone to share my internal world with. "A single soul in two bodies". She is out there somewhere. Whoever she is. Wherever she is...
26-30, M
