I. Why is this the only letter that is understood when it stands alone. Every other letter needs another around it to have meaning, but not I. I is lonely. I is complete.
Sometimes it seems that I wishes it were more like the other letters, incomplete. I wishes it couldn’t survive alone. But here is I, the lonely letter that represents the self.
With every new use of the letter others develop a more concrete idea of what that letter represents. It’s funny that most of the longest words have simple definitions. They are usually some specific concept, often medical terms (link to longest words). But the shortest word, I, depends one hundred percent on its context. Words are not like books, length does not imply depth. The shorter the word, the deeper the meaning.
Most words allow us to guess their meaning, if it’s too challenging we can consult a dictionary. There is no dictionary for I. I is never clear, we are usually wrong. Most of our lives are spent defining I. I changes based on our circumstances. I changes based on others. I changes based on it’s own definition of itself.
I needs to breathe. I needs to eat. I thinks. I dreams. I trusts itself. I is civilized. I is unique every time it is used. I is always referring to itself. I is circular. Though all I’s are alike, I wants to be different. I spends most of its time on itself.
I is the most useful word a language can have. Most seem to know what I likes, what I wants. This makes I useful, I makes itself known.
Though useful, I is harmful. It hurts when I does something we don’t expect. I often ignores the needs of other I’s. I knows pain. I struggles. I is not innocent. I knows all of its own secrets. I can be careless.
I’s pain is usually derived from one thing. I suffers because I knows it can stand alone. I suffers because it constantly reminds itself that it is complete. I never was, and never will be, like all the other letters. I has a meaning, a lonely, solitary meaning. I requires no other letters to survive.
I is immortal. I is not fully human. I does not die. After death, I remains. An entire life of actions, dreams, failures, and desires that had been summed up into one letter do not settle with the dust and ashes of a body. It is only in death that I realizes it cannot stand alone. I is made immortal by every other I that it stood apart from. I’s remember each other. I’s connect. I’s love. I’s create moments, moments create memories, memories create legends, legends make I eternal. It is but only in death that I is wholly incomplete. I only lives on if not alone.
Thus, I has hope. I needs other I’s. I needs not act alone. I acts on behalf of others. I is passion. I is dreams. I is love. I is behavior. I is pieces of others. I can dedicate itself to the whole. Independence is not determined, I can be interdependent. If that’s what I likes. If that’s what I does. If that’s what I wants. Mostly though, I is selfish because I is human. Yet, I is immortal.
In life I is lonely, focused on keeping itself alive and different. In death I is just like all the other letters. It seems that’s what it wanted all along. I does not need death to be like the other letters, death only makes it so. I only needs to choose. A simple choice. To be inseparably connected to the I’s that continue to give it life.
This is not a public journal. There is no theme, agenda, or overall purpose. I need a reason to write and it needs to be well informed. I consider myself an expert in only one subject, my own thoughts. I am reflecting my experiences onto the internet because this seems to make them more beautiful to me, especially when they are idealized and inaccurate. This is not a mirror for me to see myself looking back, nor is it a mirror that reflects a detailed image of myself to others. This page is but a jumble of letters, words, and ideas that will be interpreted differently for each person, including myself. There are no mirrors because these thoughts are directionless, inaccurate, and fuzzy; a vague, splotchy reflection of McKinley.