By the way, how do you know that I exist?
You read my blog. Someone has to write it. Therefore it must be me. Right?
But how do you know it’s me? How do you know it’s the me that I have represented myself to be, here, with these very pixels? Have you ever met me? Have you ever sat at a table with me and eaten a burger with me? Even if you have, was it enough to get to know me well enough that you’d swear in court that the person you met is the same one who writes this blog?
How do you know I’m telling the truth?
Do you know someone who knows me better than you do? Can you really trust them? How well do they know me?
How do you – or they – know that I’ve done the things I’ve said I’ve done, or been the person I’ve described here, or that I’m not an amalgam of several other bloggers who all log in with the same user name and password, edited by one particular partner for style?
If I do exist ….
How do you know I went to Harding? Married twice? Lost my dad to a coronary episode? Have two adopted children? Attend a church? Used to watch too much Star Trek?
How do you know I wasn’t fathered by a Roman soldier, don’t have an identical twin brother named Thomas, didn’t marry a nice Jewish girl named Mary and start a divine dynasty, and didn’t fake my own death or coerce one of my close friends into orchestrating it so that I could be free of this corrupted mortal body?
Is it possible that you actually believe what some others say who have met me, talked to me or even know me pretty well? That you swallow wholesale what they have to say about me because they have no real reason to lie to you about me? That you accept without demand for proof that I live fairly transparently and am, for the most part, a WYSIWYG kind of person?
Is it conceivable that you believe I exist and write this blog because all of the other possibilities fail to meet Occam’s Razor; that they’re too complex and improbable to be of consequence?
Is it acceptable to do so because I am really a person of relatively minor consequence – but if I started making difficult demands on you and claimed to hold your destiny in my hands and proved that I loved you deeply and completely by taking an extravagantly sacrifical loss in order to profit you … wouldn’t it just be a whole lot easier to say, “Look, I’m not even sure Keith Brenton exists. It’s just a name on a blog, after all.
“There’s no proof he was ever real.
“Who would do something like that, anyway?”
Sad to say, it almost certainly wouldn’t be me.
It’d be the One I try so desperately and so pathetically to emulate.
It’d be the ultimately WYSIWYG Person.
It’d be the One who took the loss for my profit.
It’d be You-know-Who.