scrawls
still cheaper than therapy*


22.1.15
on the nature of
that was all real, once: what i see, what i touch.  what i felt.  But our memories lie, stretch, embellish, filter, and destroy.  Memory is not real in the sense that it was then.  It is a leftover perception, an echo, distorted.  And, finally, then, untrustworthy.  Isn't that a conclusion?

I can love a thing which is not real.  This does not make the love not real.  The love does not make the thing real; it is neither sufficient nor necessary.  (that would be magical thinking.)  I can love a story or an illusion or a facade, and my emotion remains fact.

The world is not going to wake up one day and be fair and perfect.

All of this has no right to be anything less than self-evident.

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scrawled @ 13:45






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