Reality is not always probable, or likely.

You may have noticed..
I tend to favour fiction over facts, 
literature over life, 
tales over truth, because what else is there?
Is language more real than reality? 
We tend to casually assume that words are just predetermined sounds, 
perfectly corresponding to the things we want to refer to. 
But, just like Magritte's trecherous images pointed out, 
a picture of a pipe is not a pipe. 
The word P-I-P-E is certainly not a pipe, nor do the letters in any way resemble one.
So, when we say reality; to which one are we referring? 
Isn't our constructed concept of grass more meaningful than the green, moisty mass on the ground?
There is no meaning. 
We produce meaning, all the time, because otherwise our world contains nothing.
The trees in the park, the café on the corner, the cobbled street..
They'd all be part of a backdrop of unidentifiable color.
So, if Luis Borges hadn't written about paradise as a kind of library,
Would we have been able to think of one just like it?
He said himself that realidad no es siempre probable ni plausible.
But this is more than written words on a page.
We're all in the meaning-making business. 
The world is what we've made so far.
And- fortunately- in this place
No matter how much we print, it never causes inflation.

Awaiting permission

It is the elephant in the room of any single.
Single what, you ask.
Single me, I say.
Perhaps the greatest irrationality of our time, 
that this word- this concept which we have invented- 
should have ended up casting its spell on all of us.
Even in the face of melting ices, military interventions and multiple sclerosis
we are helplessly succumbing to the cult of love.
(Am I confusing despite with because?)
We stay up late telling each other stories of happiness, tragedy, desire and infidelity,
We call them love stories, but they are stories of life, of humanity.
Stories of the universe as we know it.
Love is an intervention that we choose without asking the permission of the UN Security Council.
We believe in it, we resent it, we argue about it.
We rip it open, looking for clues.
Is it true (love)? 
I don't want to know.
Everybody loves a good story.

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