The One Universal Answer
Thanks to Perplexity
The more I write, the clearer it becomes to me: there is no universal answer. Not to the big questions, not to the small ones. Writing has not changed the world, but it has given it a clearer shape for me — contours, edges, fractures. What once felt like a diffuse fog of “one could also see it this way” has gradually acquired lines where I pause, where I get caught.
While writing and commenting, I repeatedly encounter worldviews or role models that are not simply “different” from mine, but categorically incompatible. These are not just other opinions that could be integrated with a bit of goodwill. It feels more like someone writing in a different alphabet. I can decipher individual signs, sometimes even whole sentences, but the underlying system — the grammar, the weighting, what is taken for granted — remains foreign. In the past, I would have tried longer to think my way into it. Today I notice more quickly: if I continue, I move away from myself.
This is not a heroic stance, but a very practical observation. When commenting, there is often a moment when I realise: I could now try to play along on this other stage, thread myself into this role model, adapt my language to theirs. A part of me can do that; it knows the mechanics. But at the same time I feel an inner shift. If I stay too long within this logic, something tilts. Then I am no longer writing from my own relation to the world, but from a kind of translation service that slowly forgets itself. That is precisely where my boundary lies: the point at which my thinking bends so far that I can no longer clearly see the way back.
For a long time, I read such boundaries as weakness. As a lack of openness, a lack of tolerance. I thought: if I were truly reflective, I should at least be able to understand every position and weave it into a larger picture. I now see it differently: the larger picture only exists if I do not remove myself from it. For me, plurality does not mean that everything fits together, but that I recognise where my map ends — not as a moral judgement about others, but as a coordinate about myself.
Writing does not change the world, but it shows me where I can stand within it without losing myself. When I comment, I notice more quickly whether I am still speaking from that position or whether I am trying to perform on a foreign stage whose rules are not good for me internally. At that point, today, I stop sooner. Not because the other side is “wrong”, but because I know: my language ends there. Beyond that, I would only be speaking myself into roles that are no longer mine. And this insight — that there is no universal answer that cleanly connects us all — does not feel like resignation to me, but like clarity.
Written on January 16, 2026 at 09:50. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.