if there is no truth,

then is there no falsehood?

i wish i had paid more attention in my writing class last fall, which centered around the pursuit of truth and the struggle to define it. i've forgotten what all the great minds have said on the matter, so instead i've turned to my own patchy philosophy for clues to where, precisely, truth splits from fantasy or self-deception--and as you might have guessed, i've been utterly unsuccessful.

truth is supposed to be disengaged from deception, but i wonder how that works, considering that nothing has any meaning besides what we assign it. and to assign meaning, don't we have to deceive ourselves into believing that we matter, that our lives matter, that the world matters--when really, nothing matters at all?

in heart of darkness, marlow mentions the impossibility of conveying one's personal experience to someone else without damaging its truth. in the end, our truth, if we manage to uncover it, is nontransferable. "we live, as we dream--alone."

a brief update

lately i've been out of touch with reality, but i can tell you truthfully that in this moment, i am okay. i finally--finally!--starting writing again, and it feels fucking great. i can't even explain--i've been steadily gasping down a poisonous elixir of all the worse feelings you can imagine for nearly a month now, and today, something just snapped and i felt myself climbing back up to resume my old position in the observatory of my mind, and to start taking notes again. i am clear-headed for the first time in weeks (jesus, maybe months) and the sentences are surging out of me. i feel as alive as one should feel, approaching the crux of her undergrad studies on an appropriately crisp july night. life is so messy, ruled by disorder, and i've yet to make sense of any of it. but i'm making my way in the right direction.

today i listened to an old podcast in which aleksandar hemon read "a summer's reading" by bernard malamud, and i was so stunned afterwards that i parked my car and sat in silence, trying to absorb it all. read it, ann, and then we should call each other and talk about it. i realized as i listened that i've been hating myself lately for the same reasons i found myself hating (disliking, maybe?) the main character, george. maybe the story's magic lies in its relationship with my present self, and maybe it will have a much lesser effect on you--maybe in a few years, even i will struggle to find anything special in it. we'll see. but i'm dying to discuss it with someone while it's still rattling around and echoing in my mind. let's talk this weekend? (and not just about me, i promise).
i love you so much--and i hope you're well. start writing again, i miss your thoughts. xoxo, j.