(If Heidegger played Blind-man’s buff, this would be the rulebook)

Let’s be honest—though I resent agreeing with myself, I was always right: everything hidden will, eventually, be dragged into the light. An inconvenient axiom, if you really think about it. Because it tells us something unpleasant about ourselves: that when given the choice between illumination and concealment, we instinctively choose the latter.

History isn’t a story of truth—it’s the biography of how we make things unclear. Blur them. Smudge the facts. Like squids releasing ink clouds or chameleons melting into branches, we’ve evolved our own defense mechanisms: denial, euphemism, distraction, and polite avoidance. We spend our lives erasing the obvious and tucking away everything indecent, unbearable, socially clumsy—or just personally embarrassing. Not only from others, but especially from ourselves.

Light bothers us. It insists on clarity. And so we use it only as a reference point—for moving in the opposite direction. Our true migration path is toward the shadowlands: forgotten stairwells, sticky drawers, basements, browser histories, the unarchived corners of our minds. You want to understand humanity? Start with this:

Hiding isn’t our flaw—it’s our favorite evolutionary trick.
Obscurity is our mother tongue.
We don’t seek truth—we master the art of making it evaporate.

Try this simple exercise: pick a random day. Nothing special—any Tuesday will do. Now count.

How many times did you drag something from the dark into the light?

And how many times did you shove something into the dark—just to spite the light?

Write it down. Be honest. Then—and only then—let’s talk about aletheia, that smug Greek word for “truth as unveiling.” But the real truth about truth? It’s not a revelation. It’s an indiscretion. Not an inquiry, but an interrogation.

If everything we said came from a sincere desire to move closer to the light, then all speech would be confession. But who can do that? Who could survive that?

Heidegger, bless his black turtleneck, got it right in the most catastrophically wrong way possible. If he’d truly believed in truth as disclosure, he would’ve called his life’s work Baba Oarba (Blind-man’s buff) —not Sein und Zeit.

Because life isn’t Being and Time. Life is Blind Man’s Bluff. A game in which everyone else gets blindfolded and sent to chase whatever scraps of truth we’ve hidden—poor souls, spinning dizzy in circles while we stand perfectly still behind the curtain.

And just to add insult to ontology: in this game, the winner is never the one who reveals themselves. It’s the one who masters the art of misdirection. The one who plants decoys. The one who vanishes. Beautifully. Convincingly. Almost metaphysically.