You think that what you have to offer is a wound. Or, perhaps it’s a scar. What is depends on your location in a story. But maybe what you have and give is just yourself, with this or that feature. The possibilities are alarming.
You just wanted attention. Well, you got it. Maybe. It depends on what counts as evidence, and you’re a philosopher, so…
Just proceed ‘as if’; what’s the risk?
Nothing at all, actually.
You’ve been told your whole life that there is something wrong with you. Implicitly, anyway. It’s your gender. No, it’s your mind. No one can understand you. Or, maybe it’s just the way you move from here to there. It grates. Or, something. You’ve tried to structure yourself in such a way so as not to offend. You’ve become boring.
You walk the dog and think. It’s on these trips around the neighborhood—under dying leaves, over pavement cracks, around corners with hidden lanes—that you remember breath.
Blood red and orange.
It’s just the neighbor.
You’re writing a dissertation.
You’re still writing a dissertation.
You’re no longer writing a dissertation but think that you should.
All you ever wanted was a clarified view of the human condition, but now you’re crafting arguments about minutiae that no one will ever read. From observer to participant: the irony is stifling.