I no longer hope that someone would understand me. Maybe it’s an impossible pipe dream anyway. Who can really know what’s behind that wall of bone and tissue, what’s in our skulls?
I contemplate living with a simplified interface to the world while a more complex kernel spins and broils within the self, to be let out as art or writings (carefully concealed of course in self protection). A hero in my own skull. Well, one has to be a hero somewhere.