Truth.
It's a funny kind of concept. One of the hardest to really, really, commit to. We all like to tell ourselves we uphold the truth, or a very personal version thereof. This...is a lie.
Very few of us, I think, are entirely truthful, much of the time. Even with (especially with) ourselves.
Admitting to the truth often brings pain, akin perhaps to a birthing, of sorts.
I am not unique then, that I tend to settle for the truth as it seems to be, at the time. Really I, and the rest of my human fellows, live in a sort of consensus fantasy world. Things happen, and we tell ourselves a little story about it. Sometimes (all the time?) we embellish that story over time, and it tends to become our reality for that little snippet in time. A kind of 'that moment that sort-of-happened'. We cherish these almost-truths, for they help us to deal with the great big Truth, in a way.
So, according to my own theory espoused somewhat-coherently above, we tell ourself stories, all the time. Every day. We even relive those stories, perhaps flesh out details here and there (we call it 'remembering').
We pretty much rely on these stories to exist, to function. In some ways, they become our reality.
Why then, do I find it so hard to sit down and write a story?!
