I once read this cute perspective about a prehistoric tribal type person who experiences seeing a book for the first time ever.
They open the book, but all they can see is page after page of patterns made of black ink.
I often find myself wondering, where in life do I similarly see nothing but ink patterns?
what am I unable to appreciate or understand because of an absence of knowledge?
what sort of stuff is persistently invisible or inaccessible to me due to me not being in the know?
what can I not perceive? what am I unable to give my attention to? what day to day experiences am I locked out from or am blind to because of ignorance, because of a lack of past experience or simply because I don't have the words for it etc?
Similarly, how much reality do I habitually filter out, how much stuff do I ignore and not pay attention to, in order to ensure that my life (or my memory of my life) fits neatly within the familiar boundaries of my ignorance, my prejudice and my beliefs etc.
and what do I consistently edit out of existence to maintain the tidy illusion that my life is a story?