Before I go off on some abstract narrative of who I am, I’d like to say the following:
- I do not click like on posts I haven’t read.
- If I click like on your post, it means I read it and I honestly liked it.
- If I follow you, it’s because I think your words have meaning, and they do so with enough frequency that I don’t want to miss what your next words might be.
- Suggesting/implying that I should check out more of your posts or follow your blog is a guaranteed way to get me to do neither.
I fear I cannot tell you about myself.
Like many people, I seem to find that every layer of myself I dig through is merely one that lets me know how little I truly know.
I find myself a man with a pick that’s ever being dulled, swinging helplessly at the interior of my being.
And every time I think I know the nature of the ore that hides within, I find a new anomaly that makes me question what I’ve found before and wonder what I’ll find if I keep digging.
But sometimes I grow weary of the work, terrified that all I am is the artifacts uncovered – little pieces of identity that I link together with what logic I’ve been given, knowing well I’m making pictures of chaotic constellations.