Wittgenstein, despite being so skilled, wrote of the difficulties he had writing his final work. I was surprised to find his description of these so perfectly matched those I struggle with here - I mean no other comparison by that, only that I found it a great comfort:

Each time the end of my ramblings has appeared it proved to be a mirage. My thoughts slipped out from the lines I tied them to, and diagrams I drew along the way illustrate a journey I didn't know I was on. The task was recursive; words are illusions - subjective maps not actual territories. This is the Red Pill.

I arrived in Finland from London, enchanted, with no thought of being tripped up by culture. The country felt soft, the people seemed kind, and unlike Greek or Chinese, Finnish is legible. I'd fallen in love. When my love died though the society I'd been part of died too, and alone I found I was incomprehensible.

As a child I felt lost; simple logic became my safe place. Back then it seemed the perfect guide. Together with maths and science, I searched for a world of black and white, but instead found that what appears to be simple logic, although fundamental to describing chaos, is often powerfully misleading.

Facts are unhelpful in themselves. We've not dropped far from the trees. Leaders know bravado and gibberish sway us more than courage or reason, and although scientists imagine their facts will change the world only the stories that are told with them do that. Meanwhile, the investments we've made in the stories that we know keep it the same.