Truth

We scramble for the foundations. Someplace to lay our weary heads.

Exhausted by the day to day play of uninterrupted chaos,

We are desperate to nail things down.

But we made up the floor. When the winds blow strong,

And everything comes loose from the moorings we thought

Ran deep,

We see our floor pitch and sway, and all our work to hold things still

Is shown to be the work of fools and madmen.

How can you speak a thing you never had?

No view you have can be anything other than subjective.

Don't sully the word by pretending you can know it.

Trying to give your words power by harnessing the belief in the real.

You'll be made a fool of yet.

Watch closely the wise ones in the ivory towers.

See how they pace nervously, clutching their robes.

They know: Kant set the rules, but what did he set them upon?

Even he would not say: he made the very fabric of our educations

A metaphysics. Something not to be discussed.

There is no ground. Take this how you will.

But try not to be surprised when reality asserts itself,

And everything you depended on, needed to be firm,

Simply can't be found.

So maybe there is some truth to be found after all:

Nothing has a truth all its own.

Now go. Find this and be free.