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We don't yet have the language to describe what we are. The word "truly" is five letters in English with endless faces peering dreadfully through it's translucence. It is one day in the lifetime of no one, because no one is "truly." Then there are the words "man" and "woman;" they aren't even a shadow of dichotomy in the darkness of our understanding; our words aren't beacons, they are false starts. Perhaps we are endless false starts; "false" is another five letter word that nobody is. Perhaps what we are is too complicated to take letters seriously in combination. How is anyone truly "man" or "woman?" How is anyone a mere word? How are we not a face drawn on a wall by a child, artlessly washed away by a thought process?
We communicate with ourselves when we think that we are listening and responding to others. Even with a gun pointed at your head, it is yourself whom you plead with, who you tell yourself to be brave with, because it is yourself who you think with; your doppelgänger fights against you and also, it fights for you. We are more than our interpretation of who we think we are. We are where the sky meets the water, watching ourselves horizontally; we have yet to comprehend our verticality.
When we speak, we speak to ourselves, the interpretation of ourselves is what we find in others, whether in difference or similitude or historical emplotment. Any response is only appreciated in our heads and we can't fathom ourselves. There are depths within us far deeper than any ocean. We don't know what's down there. Perhaps we are notions of concepts submerged and drown in endless notions of concepts. We are the abstraction within ourselves.
