On Subjectivity

I can rewrite history so far as it only applies to me. This subjectivity is a sick ubiquity. For as long as I keep my thoughts on the inside and don't confide, it doesn't matter where belief resides. It can be a brambled bush of thoughts, a vortex. Made by meaning in my own private cortex. So I can be correct and say I'm always right, because I define the truth in me, no matter what the light and how it shines on in angles both flattering and not. From the top, I can scarcely see the object is full of rot. If the logic at the core is found to have a fatal flaw, then who's to claim it's not our minds that have been crippled since the start? It's frightening, right? We have this pre-conception of space and time so the world fits in the lines of what we know. But take those blinders off for perspective's sake and we can't even comprehend where senses or memories go. Because time ceases to exist or displace us, not to mention the utter lack of dimensions. We're caught in this frame of seeing through pre-programmed eyes, seeing shapes and lines existing where they might not otherwise.