You know me.
That is, if you read here regularly, you have some idea of me which — who knows? — may approximate reality. It’s close enough you have some idea what to expect. You know me on a functional level, or can if you try, if you decide it matters.
Then again, you don’t know me. I’m sure you realize that. We might get on quite well hanging out together, once we go through those adjustments by which we replace the imagined traits with reality. The timbre, customary volume, and range of my voice, pronunciation of words, word choices, the mannerisms, facial expressions, twitches, etc., together make me someone recognizable in the ordinary sense.
Yet again, I don’t even know myself. Critical to who I am is that no one but God really knows, because we can’t know the future. I strive to be someone so full of creativity and exploration that I surprise myself. I’m willing to be surprised, counting on it. In that sense, I don’t want it possible for anyone to know me. Yes, at some point that becomes a trait itself.
That’s how I want to know myself, because I’m open to things I can’t control, and curious to see how I’ll react.