We exist. I exist. You exist.

“We exist. I exist. You exist.”

I choose to believe that I exist, that you exist, and that therefore I can state that we exist. The act of speaking presupposes these three things, a subject, an object, and a relationship between subject and object.

Ontological skeptics offer all sorts of hypothetical scenarios in which one of us does not exist. Perhaps a demon haunts us and shapes our dreams. However, if a demon does shape my dreams, and if he does a good job of it, there’s no way for me to know that. If there’s no way for me to know that a demon shapes my dreams, then whether he does or does not is irrelevant.

If this is a dream, then it is a convincing one, and I cannot presume that I will awaken upon its end.

As a speaker, I am also separate from you, the object of my speech. Our brains are spectacular things; if I speak to myself, a different part of my brain processes the information and the information itself feels different, or can be different, upon inflection or pitch or tone. When I speak to myself, however, I must accept that in a way I am treating myself as two separate individuals. I am not trying to convince myself, I am trying to convince a different part of myself.

Just the same, when I speak to you, I must hope that you understand what I am saying. If, in talking with you, I begin to feel that you do not, I can go back and try to explain myself differently. This is a great and powerful tool, the possibility of refrain. Or perhaps we speak different languages. If our minds are similar enough, perhaps one day we will learn to speak the same language. If not, I hope I don’t have anything important to say!

We share a great lot in common, you and I, if you understand what I say. And although, if you were to ask me “who is a part of this conversation?” I would say, “we are, you are, and I am,” conflating us two people, this “you” and this “I” into the same pronoun is not to destroy our individuality. “We” are not one in the same. By reducing us both to this word, that does not change the fact that we are both still here, both still individuals, men or women though we may be. We are divisible, you are, and I am. And our union likely will not last forever.

“I am. I think. I will.”

I have possessions, things that I control. My hands are my own. My eyes. My ears. My brain. My body.

“I shall choose friends among men, but neither slaves nor masters. And I shall choose only such as please me, and them I shall love and respect, but neither command nor obey. And we shall join our hands when we wish, or walk alone when we so desire.”

By speaking, if I choose to be rational, I choose to accept these three premises. “We exist. I exist. You exist.” I do not have to speak. I do not have to be rational. Speaking does not prove that I exist. My choice to speak to you does not prove that you exist. And though, by speaking, “we are in dialogue,” this is a tenuous binding that can be broken with silence.

The choice to speak is a choice that demonstrates the first of all beliefs. It is a belief so paramount that it is the basis for all knowledge. Knowledge is not universal, not absolute, not transcendent. If a demon, should a demon exist, ever come down to me and explain that everything I experienced was his doing, then that could very well indeed demonstrate that all what I regard as “knowledge” is not knowledge at all but instead an elaborate lie.

Until that day comes, however, when I choose to speak, I choose to accept my own beliefs, and I choose to express those beliefs.

So it is the case that all action, the act of living itself, presupposes these things. They can be called into question. I could be dead and not know it, and these could be but memories. But until I find a way to test that this is not a memory, then whether it is or not is irrelevant. By living, by acting, I choose to accept these beliefs. And this is the basis for mine and all cosmogonies, all justice, all truth, and all other beliefs.