Saturday, 2 March 2013

I like Marcel Proust. I like that he was a good writer and that he was eloquent in his recounting the tale of a life from earliest times to ..well, I have not finished it all yet. Many who read his work get the impression the life being narrated is his own. So I drew great pleasure from his comment that it was all fiction. I feel this way about the story I carry about myself. I have created my legacy in my mind and that is mostly fiction, only because I do not know what is truth and not. Like a man who comes out of unconsciousness and learns second hand of how he had an accident or blow to the head or whatever. We are not always aware of what the role is we are playing in life. I like to be cognizant of what is going on around me but I will be the first to admit I do not know what the hell I am doing in it. If I suddenly were transported onto the set of a sitcom and had no lines rehearsed, and no idea who the other actors were, I would not be any less awkward than this.

It has been said that truth is stranger than fiction. What is truth. What is real. What we observe with our eyes and register in our heads. I have to ask, are our facilities for apprehending the world true. We can go through the history of philosophy and the scientific studies that show parts of the brain being active during various activities, but where in all of this research is reality? Where is the I, that sees.

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