You don’t know me. Even if you had met me and shaken my hand in the past, you do not. I know this to be empirically true because I do not know me. I know a lot of things about myself, but they are just that: things about me, not me alone. To know myself fully would mean having answered most of philosophy’s unanswerable questions about the nature of existence, and while I can at times be too impressed with myself, I’m not that impressed with myself just yet.
I have hidden myself from the world even as I walk through it for uncountable reasons, but the primary reason is fear. Fear that no one will understand. Fear that I will face everything from prejudice to rejection to the loss of my life or my freedom. But a silent life is no life at all, and I cannot continue it.
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