Meaningless Reflection

There’s an argument to be made for the notion that the contents of our minds are really nothing more than the reflective internalisation of all that froth and bubble we experience from other people. In such a world in which the contents of each mind are little more that the reverberating reflection of all the noise and bother that surrounds us we could never isolate anything truly unique or self-validating. If everything between our ears came from other people’s brains and if everything between their ears came, again, from other people then there would be no anchors of certainty upon which to hang our identities, our systems of belief and these variously fictional sandcastles of personal, partisan or otherwise collaborative self-determination that we all inhabit. We would become the hollow shells of alienated, lonely souls seeking a certainty which language or personal invention could never provide. We would subsequently fill our lives with things, ideas, words, experiences and possessions because these are the behaviours we perceive all around us in which everyone else endlessly seeks to grasp an essence or answer to the enigmatic question they embody. Everyone would be copying everyone else without center, periphery or meaning.

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