Plato’s Allegory of the Cave said we don’t know the truth of things, and that the names we give things are not of the things but the ideas which we cannot grasp.
What if our whole lives we can never turn our heads like the prisoners? What if our entire lives are lived in mist? Is there a book somewhere with the story of my life? I sometimes wish there was, so maybe there is a reason in all my wanderings.
When did I become caught up in this motion of rightness and structure? If only Ikea designed life.