Facts resemble acts in that something actually has
been done. The sophistication of theatricality can prevent this understanding. We
think we’re superior, having the truth. Is truth whatever people can be led to
believe? Or whatever the big man says it is? Is it the result of an equation?
Or something studied under a microscope? Once enacted, do facts remain the
same?
On certain roads, I seem to travel through time. Even
where trees and buildings have gone, replaced by blocks of other meaning, I
feel their hidden presence. As on a ship, floating away, leaving behind acts of
the past captured in these places. With them float my errors, strifes, and
pleasures, and every word with its fact-making power, falling helplessly into
the past. A fact can’t be altered, but what it means to you isn’t what it meant
to me. Deaths and births reshape the casting: seeing life whole changes the
emphasis. Consequences reveal themselves anew. Facts may be prisoners to
mutable memory.
We’re placed in a world of endless transmutations, swirling among desire and destruction. Be a little easier on yourself. God alone is eternal, and you are not in any way a god.
