I think we read fiction because it ends, and that's tremendously calming.
The reality is much less pleasantly clear.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
We all presuppose the rule of law (or morality, or justice, however you want to phrase it), and we, all of us, also believe we're inherently better than other people, and mostly that we don't deserve punishment and other people do deserve it.
To say that we're hypocrites only begins to highlight the fiction we create to explain our own actions to ourselves: our narrative ascription is really wide and deep, and we're never in need to maintain our effort to propel it into action. We're natural liars, in other words.
Even knowing this doesn't do it justice, though, because we, me included as I write it, believe, automatically and defacto, that, having greater knowledge we'll self-deceive less than previously. And we're just as wrong about it as we were about initially recognizing it. Because it happens in dynamic situations, over and under playing our hands, and selecting information.
Repeat after me.
I don't know.
Fuck if I know!
Fuck you, I just don't give a damn anymore because I don't know!
If I knew, I wouldn't be here.
It takes me a long time to process information.
I don't understand what you're saying.
My preferences are not clear, which is the reason that I'm unable to manufacture the appropriate level of confidence to be taken seriously, which is the reason that I'm unable to function in a normal and acceptable manner, and which has multiple feedback loops into my sockets of justification and self-belief in the exceptional and special nature of perfume laced feces.
Half of my thoughts are bullshit, but I say them just to fuck you over.
I have trouble trusting other people.
Other people are far too trusting.
Faith is like this: meaningless.
And yet. I believe. Unshakably.
And I'm scared shitless. That I'm entirely wasted right now. That my fragile ego won't be able to save me again. That I'll spend the weekend wiping my ass with the window curtain. That the curtain will not smoothly block light ever again, and that, despite repeated washings, will exude an odor notable enough to be remarked upon by the crudest of punk rockers or the waspy of fancy pants.
And if you tell anyone, I'll kill you, straight up. Because other people's opinions matter. What other people think about my thoughts matters.
Except that it all matters a great deal less than I used to know. And I'd be happy with a little cabin and a cord of dry hardwood for the winter.
Posted by hmm at 9:50 PM