for Ferdnando Pessoa
There is always another way, which is why my mind is exploding and I cannot begin to separate my own thoughts, yet feel entirely separate. And more, not sure, no, not sure at all if I have any continuity of my own. Can’t tell you if I am solid, a consistent person who can be known at all. No, I don’t really wonder. I know that I lack solidity, consistency. It’s just that I am not sure if this is a mutual understanding of how things are. Actually I also know there is no such mutual understanding.
I say things that others reject, thinking they are being kind by disagreeing. For example, they disagree that I cannot be forgiven. Of course I can be forgiven, because they can be forgiven. No commiseration on that point. Or they disagree when I say that psychopathology is not inexplicable, that I know the warm bath of arrogant non-feeling in which the psychopath immerses. Is it better to disagree with what is uncomfortable than to reach across that abyss?
What I don’t know is this: do conventions held in common yield sufficient grounds for knowing the other? No, don’t lie. They don’t. Plainly and simply, they don’t. We know nothing of our self, much less of one another.