Yourself is the first character you learn to write. How can you write anything else? Or, is it the other way around? We are born with omniscience, and then slowly, crammed into ourselves. Looking at a tree, I see it as firewood, something to climb, or shade. Then, if I try, I can imagine what it would be like to be thirsty for water and yearn to grow. But these are my terms. Can I ever get far enough outside of myself to see from the true perspective of the tree? Another way to solve the problem would be to redefine ourselves. Are we ourselves? Or, are we everything? A journey inward, or a journey outward—they may both lead to the same place.