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An instantaneous photograph of a continuously shifting state of mind. An attempt at trapping thoughts in their most fleeting moments—a shot in the dark, in hopes of coming across something truly authentic to self, but who knows. One’s truth is another’s lie. I’ve come to realize that truth dwells not in tangibility, but in the sincerity of the intent, through the apparency of which, beauty unveils.

“What I really believe” is the needle in a haystack comprised of “what I wish to believe” and “what others wish me to believe.” The apparent futility of finding the needle is daunting, yet nothing else seems more worthy.

“The next real ‘rebels’ in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the ‘Oh how banal.’ To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows.”*

* David Foster Wallace, “ E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction”

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