Constructs surround us all, wisps of the earned and unearned reputations, ivy-covered ruins of our lover's well-meaning but limiting boxes, threads of memories half-present, now more story than history. We are more idea of a person than person. Like Cylons, we all live in an augmented reality of our own delusions.
Am I talking to, loving, hating, bantering with, sparring, one-upping, and helping him, or the construct that I carry of him? Do I ever really interact with people? Perhaps Plato was ultimately right and I've only been dealing with shadows.