The Fictional Deception of Self

If it is true that we must in some sense build ourselves upon what is or may be the irreducible self-deception of a language and logic that can only ever pretend or deceive as to its ability to ever hold as certain knowledge the closure and self that is the pearl at the center of this oyster of itself, then what does this mean for our lives and the meanings we generate and celebrate as a function of our participation in and existence through language? Does this mean that all identity is in essence and always already something of a creative fiction and that beyond whichever interfaces we must adopt and adapt to for survival in any social and cultural time and place, we are completely and irrevocably free to write ourselves as any fiction we choose into the book that this life comes to represent to our ordered knowledge? Are we all essentially free-floating within this symbolic system of belief? Is the only true deception one in which the world asserts the existence of absolute facts?

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