my quirks and errors are part of my truth.
truth. such a harsh mistress. in order to know my truth, i have to know myself. like anyone else, i have i don’t know how many bones, i don’t know how many muscles, i don’t know how many kilometres of gut, hair and blood vessels. and those are the things that are more or less knowable – do i know them? no.
the truth, when we talk about it, is supposed to be about the stuff inside. inside the soul, heart, mind, psyche, brain, whatever container your current state of science tells you. nobody has ever made an inventory of it the way they have for the gross physicality of us.
so i ask you, how am i supposed to know my truth?
my quirks and errors are part of my truth as i know it this moment. how’s that for a sentence.
but what do i know of myself this moment? that i am slightly tipsy from the bordeaux i just had? that i want to go to bed? that i enjoy doing this writing frenzy?
if we talk about truth, we need to talk about knowledge. says i. i know others disagree, this is all epistemology stuff, stuff i’m supposed to have at the tip of my fingertongue but i don’t. anyway, i say, this moment, with my knowledge and awareness at 11:22 at night, that without knowledge, truth doesn’t get through to me.