...

I want you to know me; I want to tell you nothing about me.

It's a problem.

Of course, there are also not that many details to share. I never do much. I never have much to say.

That's a lie; it's just that I'm too much of a coward to say anything that I want to even in a form where it is much less likely to be read.

Time has been standing still; that's what it seems like to me. Every day is the same day. All the points being made, the problems being pointed out are one's which those same people have been making, pointing out for a long time.

Nothing has gotten better. Nothing at all will be done. If things have gotten worse it is only an effect of prolonged exposer.

I don't know how I got to here. How have I ended up with the life that I have? Why do I believe the things that I do about myself? It's not something that I know how to untangle. So, then, how do I know what is true? Well, I guess it's mostly that I don't think anything is the real truth. If I tell a story about myself then it might as well be true.