human condition, life, literature, poem, poetry, postmodernism, prose, thoughts, writer, writing
We are nothing if not plural, in our daily dalliances with plural others who, just like us, adjust their persona to suit different situations, places, and peoples.
We are nothing if not plural, when we say one thing yet behave otherwise; we attempt to reduce ourselves to absolutes in the hopes that by conveying a singular self to another they’d understand our ‘true’ selves but how could they, when we are all complex and contradictory beings struggling to make sense of ourselves, of which there are many?
We are nothing if not plural, yesterday today and tomorrow, for people change and no-one goes from birth to death unmarked by life, by others, by themselves.
We are plural, you and I, so let us not confine ourselves to forced categories and false pretences out of fear of not being understood. Let us run free and admit that we are nothing but inconstant, temperamental: multiple versions of a work in progress until we expire.