Every thought is an action and every action is located between blind faith and the paralysis of self-consciousness. The moment that faith ceases to be blind it loses all its thrust, falls into the dissolving truth of its fictionality. But that truth is no sort of truth at all, and is no more true than the action it foreclosed. And so you cannot give an account of yourself and cannot chalk this up to some kind of superior honesty, which would only be a more grotesque proferral of faith. In this way the very structure of embodied consciousness, where embodied means that it is pinned through and through to deferrals and deviations, becomes a longing of the heart. The account needs to be given, but stays in reserve weighing on you increasingly until you find the ear that can receive it, which is itself only another kind of faith, the shadow of dismemberment.