Truth

Are we really capable of admitting anything? Always striving to get to it. What does it mean? Is there a universal truth or is it only my truth or your truth or the truth of others? We go in circles. We are ashamed and afraid. ‘The truth will make you free’, said Jesus to his disciples. How far are we willing to go, how deep? Reveal your thoughts. Is that the best thing to do? I often do that. Why don’t I feel free then, nor happier? Somebody said “The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off.” I tend to believe that more.

First attempt

I have been carrying this book around with me for almost a month now. It is not the first time I read it. Oh, I have read it many times before. I even gave it as a gift and thought that I could share its wonders. But I am not sure it has reached its purpose. It inspired me to take the first steps in writing this blog. It even gave the blog a title. I have been thinking about it for a while, but it seems I could not find the courage to expose myself, my thoughts, my ideas. Who could possibly be interested in them? And then I thought ‘Do it for you. Take a chance. Try it.’ I have a lot of things to be thankful for. I was happy for a while, I was in a frenzy for a while, I was hopeful for a while. I am looking at it now, it is right beside me on the table, the front cover fluttering agasp and always inviting. Let me open it and quote a little something that I feel somehow defines me.

“I chose. I took the print of life not outwardly, but inwardly upon the raw, the white, the unprotected fibre. I am clouded and bruised with the print of minds and faces and things so subtle that they have smell, colour, texture, substance, but no name.”

Virginia Woolf

'Now to sum up', said Bernard. 'Now to explain to you the meaning of my life. Since we do not know each other [...] we can talk freely. The illusion is upon me that something adheres for a moment, has roundness, weight, depth, is completed. This, for the moment, seems to be my life. If it were possible, I would hand it you entire. I would break it off as one breaks off a bunch of grapes. I would say, "Take it. This is my life".

'But unfortunately, what I see (this globe, full of figures) you do not see. [...] But in order to make you understand, to give you my life, I must tell you a story - and there are so many, and so many - stories of childhood, stories of school, love, marriage, death, and so on; and none of them are true. Yet like children we tell each other stories, and to decorate them we make up these ridiculous, flamboyant, beautiful phrases. How tired I am of stories, how tired I am of phrases that come down beautifully with all their feet on the ground! Also, how I distrust neat designs of life that are drawn upon half-sheets of notepaper. I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on the pavement. I begin to seek some design more in accordance with those moments of humiliation and triumph that come now and then undeniably.'