We are each characters in our own sagas; between the stories others perceive you in and the stories you perceive yourself in, which analysis is truer? Is it so obvious that they are your own? Is one the best authority on one's own identity? This is not the pertinent question. The real question is: in such epics, is there even a difference between true and false? Events of the outside can be false of course, things such as "I did/didn't do that," or "She carved a void in my soul."

Internal events however, cannot acquire a sense of falsity, and if I am compiled of internal events only, how I can begin to comprehend another on the inside. Is that an event that ever comes to an end? Is the soul a place of truth? Or are these truths deceitful shadows of the self? Is our yen to connect with another simply to satiate ourselves of solitary experience? Is what torments us unattainable feelings? Feelings such as sitting at a polished Steinway and knowing only your own fingertips can play Beethoven despite not being able to play the piano? Is there a need to experience things from within in order to narrate and navigate our soul more accurately?

Is it a fundamental question of the self–the fateful identity we created for ourselves long ago of what we must've accomplished and experienced so that it would be a life we could approve of in the end? This approval must be coupled with a freedom to do as we please. The fear of death is then of this foretold identity being unfulfilled; this is completely within our power for we can draw the image of our life as it was personally ordained to be actualized. What is more apparent than this is that we can change this image such that it fits our identity as we deem appropriate. If this is successful, the fear of death should dissipate completely, and if it doesn't, it's because the self-image (which we alone have created) rises not from the fluxing identities we have to deal with (both by ourselves and with others), but that it's anchored in us and grows out of our control by forces that serve to assist changing identities of who we thought we were or could be. Ergo, the fear of death is the fear of not being able to become who we'd planned to be.

Everyone dies alone, thus the root of these fears must be loneliness. Can it be that everything we do is done as an exodus from lamenting solitude? Is that why we renounce our rues only at the end of our life? Is that why people so seldom say what they're thinking? Why else would we hold on to unfaithful lovers, unrequited beloveds, false friendships, and boring social obligations? What would happen if we refused these and ended the perpetual blackmail of social responsibilities? If we allowed these enslaved wishes and the fury of our oppressions to rise as high as a mountain peak? For this dreaded solitude, what does it truly consist of? Is it the silence of possible absent consequences? Of not requiring to dredge through the minefield of deceitful relationships and friendly half-truths while holding our breath in the face of sophistry? Why? For the freedom not to have anyone across from us during meals? For the linearity of time that yawns when the onus of responsibility falls silent? Aren't those beautiful things? Isn't that the paradise Dante dotes upon? So why do we fear it? Is it a fear that exists solely because we haven't thought through its end? A fear that we've been talked into by thoughtless parents, ignorant teachers, and dogmatic politicians? Why are we so sure others wouldn't envy us when they gaze upon our ascended freedom? And in that, wouldn't they seek our company? Wouldn't they then, seek to be as free as us? Wouldn't they seek to discover this freedom with us, and serve to make us mask our loneliness with love?

Reflection; Odilon Redon; Pastel on Paper — *Reflection*; Odilon Redon; Pastel on Paper