We are, most of us, at this stage in life, a collection of fabricated images, endlessly reflecting off each other. Lunar in our desire to adorn ourselves with some glimmer of that light that makes others glow so brightly in our mind’s eye; mirror-like in our desire to imitate states as polar as the normal and the extraordinary. I can only talk in metaphors, is it because I fear absoluteness or because I have neither the words nor the honesty to acknowledge banality for what it is? (Also, why is it honest to look banality in the eye?)
But no, there is only structure, and circumstance. And all of this we work to tear, so the abstraction of personhood, receding farther and farther from the graspable realm, at last assumes its vapourous presence, floating indistinctly somewhere right above us.
Personhood, as a longing to inhabit a body that sighs in recognition of itself in the company of others.
Personhood, as a longing to belong to yourself and to belong to all persons, nonparadoxically.