None of us ever really knows another. We spend enough time to make good guesses, but the essential nature of human existence is that the best we can do is brush up against each other occasionally, straining to see those next to us, and only seeing ourselves in every direction. Memory is hazy, cloudy, tricky at best. Stories that we tell ourselves, hand picked from an unending stream of moments too vast and too quick to comprehend as a whole. We are so accustomed to hiding ourselves from others that in the end we become hidden from ourselves. And as our own self is the only self we see, we end up seeing nothing. And this is when those who would sell us things rise to the occasion with promises of unattainable things to fill that emptiness in your field of vision. And once you buy into the fantasy, the machine has you.
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