who indeed

Can I blame you for disappointing me? You failed to meet my standard, perhaps the fault is in my standard. Perhaps I should not project my desires onto you and then sulk when you fail to fulfill. I often wonder if I can even know you. I know you are here in the world, but you are to me not what you are to yourself, you are my perception, my interpretation. I objectify you, classify you, I ascribe traits and tendencies, aversions and affinities, so many concepts to define you. But are you more than my categories, can you transcend my adjectives? If you can, then how might you describe yourself? What are you that I cannot reduce to a concept or tendency? Some days I am afraid you might not be anything more than the sum of your actions and proclivities, perhaps nothing more than a collection of memories. I like to think thatÂ’s not true. But all you can ever be is a memory to me; you are never present without me projecting memories mixed with expectations onto you. I am going to pretend there is an essential you and an essential me, but who are we essentially? Can you have a personality without me? Are you only nice because I am mean and only funny because I laugh, only artistic because I am not? Maybe our only relation is relativity. Arbitrary? Sartre and Heidegger have ruined me. I will pretend anyway, because I like you, or the you you are to me. This is only foolishness anyway because what happens when one considers such ideas? If I subtract your humor from you, are you still you? what if I take away yourintelligencee? or your happy disposition? Are you still you? Where do we end and our unessential qualities begin? Tell me you are an individual and I will tell you 'so what'. You are only an individual because you are somehow different from everybody else, your individuality is dependent on everyone else, it's only relative. What is worse than not knowing who you are? Not knowing if you are.