If we accepted the fact that we have no control over how we are perceived and that an endless number of versions of ourselves exist in the minds of others, we wouldn’t care to focus on much aside from our own fulfillment and—maybe—purpose.
Even if we deduce our only reason for existence to be appreciating the sound of rain as it falls on a metal roof, we would find no fault in our lack of so-called “greater ambition.” We would accept that nobody can ever fully understand us, just like we can never fully understand them.
And that would be okay.
