I find limits infuriating. This has been expressing itself in a variety of ways in my life recently. For one, communication seems to me to be imprecise almost to the point of uselessness. A sentence can mean so many different things, each word containing permutations of meaning to the reader. And yet, the more words I add, to clarify my meaning, to add precision, the more I am drawn into fractal blurs, refining and re-refining until I can no longer say anything in a way that seems right.

Code is an improvement, but it is so impossible. There is a severe limit to the number of ideas I can communicate, or even conceptualize, with language so constrained. At least with code, once it works I do not need to revise - it is good enough.

I feel a great sadness at my own inability to communicate with others. This is not a failing of myself; This is not the sadness of personal failure. It is the sadness of perceiving that we as a society, or perhaps as a species, or perhaps simply by virtue of existence, are all alone, in a the most deep and profound way imaginable. I will never be able to share the intricacies of who I am with someone else, and all my efforts to understand others will be met with constant frustration.

I remember being unaware of this failure, and feeling that I really truly understood someone else. But now I know that was merely an illusion, that all I saw was an imposed reflection of myself, and that all I was doing was damaging someone else to give me this comforting illusion, that two people could be honest, true. That we could be unseparated, not alone.

In terms of my personal life, this leaves me with a quandary. Morally, I can not allow myself to impose my own patterns on another, wittingly or un. Nor can I allow myself to be subsumed in another. I will never knowingly allow who I am to be compromised in that way. This leaves me only with the prospect of distant polite coexistence, living with and around another only for satisfaction of mutual needs for animal comfort. I rebel against this distance, this impersonality, against the surrender to solitude, but only by maintaining a more complete solitude - I refuse to give up the chance of not being alone, and so I am more alone in the waiting. And yet, by my own admission, I wait for something that is not merely unlikely or distant, it is impossible.

Living alone forever fills me with horror. Living with someone but apart provides an equal disgust. And so in paralyzed inaction, I choose to be alone.