Personhood

The past few weeks have made me realize I overuse phrases like "transcranial magnetic kaleidoscopic mindfuck clutter", because maybe I don't want to face the fact that whta I do is juts the same as what everyone else does. What did you do for the holidays? Oh, I did something similar. What are your aspirations? Mine too! Skills? Yup. Fears? Don't get me started. So because I will never be famous, because you wouldn't pick me out on the street, I retreat into my head, where phrases such as "backlit phosphorescent kaleidoscopic movement" (or whatever) have some sort of applicability. I have said it again and again: most of how I live is personal. But this being personal is much more profound than being a reclusive shut-in (which I'm becoming less and less)--it's my belief that the question of what it's like to be me, or you, or anyone, is deeply misguided. In an important sense--and I'll just asssert it here--my point of view and yours, I and thou, are incommensurable. I felt this more strongly as a child, but I still get those inklings. How did you manage to solve that problem? Why are you so stubborn? Why do material objects make you happy? Why do you clean so obsessively? Why do you radiate an aura of loneliness? I can't predict when I get this way, but it tends to ruin everything, because I really want to hold that understanding is posible, in that grander Buddhist assertion that ego is simply the ignorance which prevents us from seeing there's no such thing as self. While I don't want to dismiss this idea as bulshit (because all I know about philosophy of mind is kind of leaning in that direction), I can't hold it now in a non-contradictory way. So then I get depressed, because this means loneliness in a crowd, loneliness even within my own consciousness--system 1 and system 2 are bickering again. And then, the real bombshell question, the thousand-dollar one that demands but never receives a satisfactory answer with all the force of eons of evolution (birth, grow, eat, shit piss, fuck, eat, shit piss, fuck, repeat, die) behind it: why won't you love me?

Consider: "Last time I saw you / We had just split in two. / You were looking at me. / I was looking at you. / You had a way so familiar, / But I could not recognize, / Cause you had blood on your face; / I had blood in my eyes. / But I could swear by your expression / That the pain down in your soul / Was the same as the one down in mine. / That's the pain, / Cuts a straight line / Down through the heart; / We called it love. / So we wrapped our arms around each other, / Trying to shove ourselves back together..."