Autobiography

The vast majority of humanity–imagine every person who has come into and passed out of existence–will never write an autobiography. Not for wont of literacy, not because their lives are boring, but for one reason only. They are _ashamed_. We are terrified to tell the truth, choosing in its place–desperately, at all turns–a convenient narrative.

Not that we are capable of telling anything close to the truth about ourselves–we are our own worst critics. Rather, we are embarrassed to even try. This is absurd. What is there to be ashamed of? We are born, we live, we will die. What advantage is gained by dissemblance or silence? Are we worried about the stories others will tell about us? Why do we take comfort in the knowledge that those stories will be lies? This is a kind of insanity.

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