Pages

Monday, May 2, 2011

stories.

"whose idea was it, i wonder, that stories can never be real life?" -patricia wallinga

but of course they can be, somebody else says. that's why people write autobiographies and semi-autobiographies and fictionalized versions of their-
wait.

why does the truth have to be fictionalized?
i mean, it's the truth; the truth is always there,
even when it's dressed in different clothes.
the blood and the feeling and the colors are still there underneath,
dynamic and pale and flushed full of all the rolling colors of humanity.
but most people aren't comfortable seeing the truth dressed in our own garments
and i don't really understand why.
maybe because it's too difficult to perceive ourselves outside our own bodies,
and expressing our own truths in words is one way to place our insides
outside of ourselves
and most of us feel naked and insecure

and then other people look at the nudes and call it artistic
they like the realism
they like the truth because truth is beautiful
and it's easy for them to quietly feel the pathos, feel the connection
because they're not the ones who cut out their godforsaken hearts bits and molecules and vessels at a time to arrange for public display
hoping to be understood.
the jarred, uncomfortable details of experience are specific to the individual,
never to be fully shared.
others can imagine, form refabrications in the mind
and to them, anyone else's clothing but their own is enough
enough "falsehood" to cover the truly intimate parts,
the possibly painful areas,
the places that couldn't be seen even if somebody tried.

so i guess stories can be real,
but only our own.

No comments:

Post a Comment