I am interested in the tangled pathways of truth: that is, when it is impervious,
perverse, insane or unpleasant. For truth is always something that will
bear scrutiny, that will unwind further--until it snaps. For I believe that
there is an exact point where truth ceases to be truth and becomes something
entirely different.

And so it snaps and the fabric of reality snarls and tears. Something drifts downwards, into the depths of the ocean, something white, flimsy, slippery, undefinable. Afterbirth. Truth, as it emerges, will always destroy something equally beautiful. Untruths, clustered around truth in greeny gold splotches, a clear casing of spittle.

But do we really peel off lies in order to get to truth? Or is it simply
a systematic metaphor, like dichotomy, that we have adopted to simplify
our universe? What actually differentiates truth from untruth? Is not untruth
simply the path not taken, the possibility that hesitated on the verge of

It is raining--- it is not raining.

Which of these contains a greater value or beauty?
There is nothing inherent within a truth that does not exist in an untruth.
One can say that truth has mated with a linear reality
but who actually lives in a linear reality?

Each of us, in seeing anything,
are referring to a past object, recognition is the act of the mind backtracking.

When you see the face of a friend, you are not forming in the present,
rather, your mind is roving the various and vast times that you have seen
this person before, as well as the place that you last saw this person---what
is your reality?

A series of ffwd and rewinds.

Your friend is a composite of images that may even obscure the
physical and psychological reality of the individual in front of you.
That, in fact, is what is the basis of many marriages:
the partners look past each other into the past; they are in
love with each others' past, their communal past.
Perhaps they would be unhappier without this delusion.
Commitment, in fact, is the ability to remember.

Peel a lie, find the translucent truth, green and clear.
Split open the truth and you have intent.
Couched within intent, is an entire vine of complexities,
seething with emotions, irrationality.

Who does truth ultimately benefit? It would appear to be the seeker but,
due to the whimsical nature of its being, it is often to the disadvantage
of the seeker, often the truth is simply the destructive conclusion of a
restless person. In this case, truth can be seen as an antidote to unrest,
perhaps an unrest that is intimately connected with living.

Truth can be a way to stop or exit out of life because, of all the
options, it is the only one that can counteract the stigma of suicide.
Despair is cloaked by, excused as, realization.

Truth and suicide are a curious couple, connected, as it were, tentatively,
by despair. Is despair confusion or knowledge? It has, iconically, always
been represented by muddiness or a fog. But is it knowledge? Certainly
a peculiar dadaistic sort: what clarity forces one into the destruction
of the very vessel that holds that clarity? But what creates a suicide,
certainly, it must be a conviction of sorts---and convictions are simply
another word for belief--that is, the action of willing something to be true.
Then perhaps the act of suicide is a point at which despair is revealed as will.

Note: Dr. Vendler, you stopped at truth: so do I.

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