Truth always wins out over fabrication. A fascinating story is always more so when we learn of its truth, less so when we learn of its fiction. My theory is that we humans crave truth. It is a God-given desire, an instinct if you will. In our stumbling and groping we chance upon hints toward reality. Rather than accepting our discovery as the mere fragment it surely must be, we embellish, fill in the blanks, the blanks that never existed until we created them. Some people call this a paradigm. I prefer not to call it that because I am uncomfortable using three syllable words where the “g” is silent. Two syllable words like “neighbor” are just fine. “Neighborhood” kind of freaks me out even more than paradigm, which could possibly be a paradigm itself if not certainly in the neighborhood of one. But when truth finally appears, we say it is strange. It is stranger than fiction because far less of it exists, in the realm of stories, anyway. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters. And my not knowing something does not really matter. But I don’t if that is true.
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