What if everyone you knew was there to show you something about yourself? Could you be that selfish, to assume that they are simply fixtures in a reality designed to make you into something more than you were? What if you were the one who was there to show someone else something about themselves, slipping inside their reality, just for a moment?
What if being blind isn’t the disability people thought it was?
What if you could see where all these metaphysical spheres of identity and personality overlapped and you could see the parasites inside the system as a whole? What if you can’t save all those people who are drowning in only a foot of water? What if by saving them you are delaying necessary Justice?
What if you could let it all be very simple?
What if you imposed a cold methogology to your life, an absolute order that allowed you to pursue the work you’ve chosen? What if that’s the only way you will ever feel human, even for a moment. What if you allowed your humanity to flow from you hands to the people that can truly appreciate and make use of it?
What if that was easier than you thought? You just might be a writer.