Are they? Really? Maybe, if they existed. But do they? I mean, does anything exist outside from words?
We like to imagine that, for example, we either live or read, we either live or work, we either live or write. However, that distinction is deceitful.
We also like to think that our lives are as important as any other ever lived, even the ones of our heros, of the people we see in movies, follow in newspapers or imagine thanks to books.
However, that comparison is misleading too.
We are trapped, trapped by our own way of portraying ourselves, of understanding our identities, of creating our subjetivities. We can only picture and "read" and understand ourselves thanks to the filer of words. Our actions are reshaped, reorganized, recreated by words. And we are constantly rearranging these words in order to adhere to previous models, thinking, however, we are defying them. Reliability falls out of our picture. Action, evidence, objectivity disappear and we are left with our own tale, our own subjetive narration and just plain, heroic, novelistic words.
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