The phoniest thing in the universe is this straightforward, ironed-out, linear presentation of reality that words [read: writers, no I] inherently force into existence, that inherently is false because the certainty of words arouses indecision, deliberation. If words, the incremental units of communication, contained the indefiniteness of life, contained the indefiniteness they inevitably heighten with the problem of choice, could we speak at all? And yet, by definition [and because of definition], could they ever reflect the blurred boundaries, the fluctuations, the transience of love&lust&death&dust... thought&vision&doubt&revision? Is this vanity, or simply humbly in vain to even write? Can words ever mean what they mean, if their very nature affects thought and confines reality?
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3.11.11
The Is and the Meta
The phoniest thing in the universe is this straightforward, ironed-out, linear presentation of reality that words [read: writers, no I] inherently force into existence, that inherently is false because the certainty of words arouses indecision, deliberation. If words, the incremental units of communication, contained the indefiniteness of life, contained the indefiniteness they inevitably heighten with the problem of choice, could we speak at all? And yet, by definition [and because of definition], could they ever reflect the blurred boundaries, the fluctuations, the transience of love&lust&death&dust... thought&vision&doubt&revision? Is this vanity, or simply humbly in vain to even write? Can words ever mean what they mean, if their very nature affects thought and confines reality?
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