The version of the world present to your understanding is entirely constituted by the symbolic and the imaginary, it is a kind of vast mathematics encompassing thoughts, feelings, ideals. It contains everything needed to simulate your world, to repeat it indefinitely, but such a simulation would have no significance in itself, at most only as an infinitesimal component of a sphere of possibility. What is missing from this we might call particularity, but it can have no name, since the act of naming something immediately translates it into the symbolic. Its effect, however, is felt at all times and your understanding is hopelessly obsessed with it, it is your pure individuality. Strange, that this which you are in the strongest sense is what you are least able to grasp, what you know least about. All the rest is gossip. This generally concerns itself with what are known as the facts of life in the larger sense; they are the symbolic landmarks which each of us must traverse but always in our own way so that the facts themselves lose their merely formal character, are not the architecture of life but its lived habitation, worn away in places, just so. This can only occur by way of countless particularities, different in their paths and degrees of realisation, but paradoxically one in their individuality while absolutely distinct from one another. Particularity or individuality as notions are related to the idea of conatus in Spinoza and various later thinkers; there is a recognition that the identity of things, that by which they enter into the world ,constitute the world, are able to be performed by the world - requires something in addition to their whatness; a thatness orthogonal to all whatness, to set it in motion, to be its ever-present origin and unattainable destination.