Am I A Lion Or Am I A Tellin' The Truth?

Wittgenstein made the comment that "If a lion could talk, we could not understand him."

His point was that language was rendered intelligible by the by social situation in which it evolved. Its meaning was formed by the culture and society in which it was used.

It's an interesting observation. Just because you understand a language does not mean you understand what is being said.

Living here is proving that.

But, then again, I also felt that way back in the UK.

Maybe I'm a lion.

Short Story Idea: The Metamorphoseb

The story opens on our hero, Sebathius Samsa, waking up one day to find that he has been transformed into words on a screen. Initially shocked by the change, our hero -lapsing into his Protestant work ethic conditioning- soon begins to worry that he will be late for the office. While he struggles to get out of bed, the words on the screen ironically detail the dysfunctional functioning of the corporate world and the stress disorders this creates. Our hero, unfamiliar with his new text body, fights to regain anonymity and uniformity so that he can catch a crowded train and rush to a job which he tells himself makes a difference despite it being so far removed from any difference he can observe. The words on the screen poke fun at the conflict and highlight the denial but really do nothing about it to bring about change. His boss calls to inquire why his employee is not at his desk as he is late for a conference call outlining some exciting new strategies for growth. Sebathius responds that he is slightly ill but will soon be on his way, he makes enthusiastic comments while the words on the screen make derogatory comments about knowing he will agree to stupid decisions so that he can keep his job executing the stupid decisions. Finally he manages to leave his flat but his blog-like appearance startles passers-by especially as people are now more used to Tweets. He tries to reason with them but they stop paying attention after 140 characters. Retreating back to his flat, his finds his reflection is now nothing but a flashing cursor. Words appear in midair, they wonder how the means became the end, and then he disappears into a full stop.
Notes: Add a speedboat chase? Write story without using the letter 'e'? Too lighthearted, make more downbeat/dark?

Does Truth Exist?

It’s a Sunday morning and we are sitting in the café for the philosophical discussion.
Does truth exist?
Here, we have conversations that we cannot have elsewhere.
Truth gives meaning, if it doesn’t exist, how can we know anything?
Here, we can ask questions about life we can’t ask anywhere else.
In the absence of any universal truth, can’t we rely on personal truth?
Here, we seek understanding about ourselves and the world around us.
But if truth is relative, different for each, then surely that means it doesn’t exist?
Here, we talk about things that people avoid talking about by whatever means.
Truth gives meaning, and isn’t the truth that there is no meaning?
For me, the truth exists here.

The End Of The Line

And then he told a story about the one that got away, about how one day he woke up and it had all changed, about how extraordinary days start with ordinary mornings.
I listened and wanted to say something but didn't know what so I didn't.
He smiled grimly and said it was funny.
It didn't sound so funny.
He said it was funny how he still wanted to hear from her. He said it was like wanting to become ill again.
I imagined his phone ringing right at that moment. I imagined her voice at the end of the line.
I imagined him being happy and ill and it was funny and sad but I didn't say anything and he didn't say anymore.

Is History Written By The Victors?

The young me is dead.
The me now has flashing memories of who me was.
The who me was is not necessarily the who me really was.
I have created a personal mythology about me to sustain a continuity, to keep a fragile link between yesterday and today, to pretend to myself that I'm the same person.
In reality, the who me was is dead. My personal mythology is just that, myth, and now I just believe my own propaganda.
Historical revisionism is all too easy as you progress in age. There's something seductive about it, pretending to be something you weren't, something you wish you had been.
As witnesses disappear, my version of events goes unchallenged, my version of events grows warped, my version of events becomes the only version.
My history is written by me, not so much a victor as a survivor, but you can trust me to tell it like it was because me was there...

I Beg Your Pardon

'Look, another beggar.'
'That's not a beggar.'
'Sorry?'
'Well, he's not begging, so technically he's not a beggar.'
'What is he then?'
'Well, maybe he's broken away. Maybe he wants nothing from us. Maybe he prefers to live outside the social comedy that the rest of us follow. Maybe he has decided that the system we live in, far from being free, is actually a cage. Maybe he has decided to find happiness via creative contemplation instead of believing he needs to find it via material goods.'
'Look, he has a little cup...'
'You're right, the bloody freeloader. And he smells.'

For Everything to Stay The Same Everything Must Change

Change is the only constant.
If you want everything to stay the same, you have to change with it.
So if you want to change, maybe you shouldn't.