Everyone is a stranger, to a varying degree, but a stranger nonetheless. Our own selves, we may find, the one we least understand. Do we truly know what we are capable of? Perhaps we really don’t want to know such things. And those closest to us: sometimes I look at them and they seem so indecipherable. Could it me the madness that has stayed with me that makes me feel this way? Something about it make me believe that it is something that has at least corollary in the spheres of normality, just that my particular point of view makes me aware of it. We know not the man next to us, the ones that share our beds even, as we do not truly know ourselves. I think we merely get used to not knowing, and forget to question such things. I wonder what else we take for granted?
