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A secret about me

A secret about me is that I'm terrifying, ruthless. I broke myself that many times as a teenager I'm like this deformed, abomination with no identity. I don't fit in with the spiritual; I don't want to play that game - though I am fascinated by the mystery which transcends science.

I seek no light, no saviour or fundamental truth to get me through this. I traverse this realm naked as can be, in the dark, willingly accepting my blindness to see. We know nothing; nothing. Save your beliefs and gods for yourself, especially those which comfort and sedate you from the suffering involved with honesty. Look, words are potent; language for that matter is fraudulent and cannot encapsulate this thing that existence is. No religious doctrine or scientific theory and fact will ever reveal what or who is the cause for all of this, because language is the very code of this illusion known as reality. We discern meaning, feeling, sensations, information - process them through various symbols and text, only to create a 'truth.' But the very basis of that truth depends on us. Religious people create a creator who created them; scientists do not distinguish the fact the experiment and experimenter are the same. I'm a writer; I'm dripping with this paradox, utilising linguistics to see if I can photograph my soul through the phonetic alphabet. It's hilarious.

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