This may make sense to you. My writing is on the other side of me. I can see it on the other side. The quiet side. The in-side. It sees itself over there. I watch it but cannot interact with it. But at least now I see it. For so many years writing was what I did in my head while doing daily chores –while not a word was writ. Now the words are a visible part of my other side. Kinda fun to see them now, but also a little sad that they held themselves from view for so long.  — Hello writing! —  

The experience of watching my writing from the distance of domesticity recalls experiences when felt that ‘I’ was not visible. Have you ever felt that? I was present and an awareness to others, perhaps, but not seen. I was visible only in an invisible sort of a way. Even my inability to reach out to my writing, which was over there, did not call attention to itself. My good fortune, however, was that I could call out to the ‘I’ that is watching. Another bit of good news is that now I can see my writing self over there. At a past time, as I said, I could not see her.  I used to imagine that she would turn back and see me watching, perhaps wave and invite me over. That would have been lovely! Now, ironically, although I see her ahead of me, calling, I also know that she is my shadow, loyally following just a bit behind.       

I live in a world of privileges and advantages. If I have felt so distant from a part of myself, how must life be for others who are not as lucky as I to have finally made contact? Do others have an inner life so distant from themselves? Are they fortunate to identify more and more of their own internal riches over time? Or are their inner selves closed off throughout their lives? Is my experience of learning about myself a slower process for me than for others?  

I believe that the gift of an excellent education that has made the difference for me. Words and reflections encourage self-exploration and self-knowledge. If only every person in the world were given the same opportunities. Then I could relax. I dream that we all can make those wonderful but inaccessible aspects of ourselves open to our own view. My fascination with what happens in other heads and in other bodies continues. If we are inaccessible to ourselves, we are likely inaccessible to others. 

Aware of this chasm, Wittgenstein formulated a depiction of the problem called ‘the beetle in the box’. It is as if each of us has our own beetle in a box exposed only to the self. We can describe our beetle to another, and another can describe their beetle to us, but we do not get a direct view of another’s beetle. This simple Wittgensteinian idea portrays the isolation of human existence. We humans work so hard to describe our beetles to others. Does your beetle look like the one I’m describing as my own? This problem is even more difficult because each person may have imperfect access to their own beetle, such that their descriptions of it are woefully inadequate. Or their beetle might be only visible on the other side of the self.  Does that make some sense to you?