It is, at times like these, I’d like to simply tear apart my own head, my own rationality and thought and have it—no, I’d like my very being to be on the cutting board. I can run any thought rampant into the ground until I myself am convinced of my own sanity.
Often as a boy I would wander into a bathroom, stare at myself in the mirror. This was, me. I had that certainty. This is who I was given to believe in, that this was, indeed, myself. This shape, body, and soul constructed who “I” was.
The dimensionality of any given person or idea is a product of our own interpretation, a given article to us by circumstance and time. I can use any constructed unit to support these beliefs; time has no meaning, I can say to you. It is by imagination by which you can devalue my denoted reality. Or, perhaps, not.
Sinthome. A neologism from French psychoanalyst Jacques Marie Émile Lacan, referred to first by seminar. It is, at its core, unanalyzable; it is as described, a “constellation”, of artificial signifiers and beliefs that constitute a vacant core. It constructs our world of objects and rules so that we can feel jouissance.
One day, I looked at myself in the very same mirror as a boy. The same figure, thoughts, ideas… Tastes, patterns, past, and future. Yet these were no longer the same signifiers. I am, at my being, a hollow nucleus that thrives on knowledge and belief to preserve itself. So we all are.
Any of my exuded know how could potentially mean nothing. The concept of truth, along so with our coined comprehension of knowledge, ethic, and morality itself can be proven or disproven by imaginary facts. Success is just as fleeting and meaningless at its core, however, so long as something relates to our complied set of rules for existence, it can be used to find jouissance. This is all grounded fact, in the designated realm of where truth exists.
My intelligence is but a mere concept solidified by belief. And we can all, potentially be, gods. Power and influence are sinthomes of our position. The deity to which we pray is merely “God” by name. A king can only remain king with the belief of his followers. If his followers one day decide he is not “king”, then, quite simply, he is designated elsewhere.
I look in the mirror sometimes still. Quite simply, I am Abeo Crowe. I am a man. I am an engineer, and an intelligent one at that. I am distant, I am logical and calm. I have an affinity for silent rooms, pleasant company, and kukicha tea. And I sometimes doubt what I am running from.