There is a shared world and a private world and they are sharply set off from each other although not separate. The private world is an opaquely bordered cell within the shared world, while the shared world is only a region, an outer suburb, of the private world, one that has been voluntarily but irrevocably traded to a common culture. Whatever you experience privately is relative to the person you are in a world of persons, but in that world your standing depends on the enigma you present of an unreachable inner world and its allusion to an impossible other knowing. You know this of your 'self' only because this is exactly how others appear to you. This is commonplace but inexhaustibly strange, so you forget how much you need to feign a sense of being at home in it, as if it were the only home you knew. It is as if in some barely remembered past there was only a single subject and you are searching for the narrow door that takes you back into it. It was divided by a single bar but the mere event of that simple division exploded into the most complex and interdependent foam of differences which is still only the complex and un-mappable movement of a single mirroring bar. There is only one thing happening. Your need to keep thinking is the movement of that bar as the impossibility of ever catching up with it. You never see the bar but experience it in the strange and shifting divisions of your world. In reality the bar is the thinking of the sole thinker of whom you are just a thought.