The One with the Babbling

by Rie

So, I babble.

I do this a lot. I even like the way the word sounds and the way it involves three b’s. I don’t mean the babbling associated with whispered secrets – I have far too few interesting secrets stored up – I mean the incomprehensible manner in which I run on about things.

And, as I thought of babbling, I thought of this: is the perception of truth considered truth or not?

It’s one of those useless thoughts. Does it matter if truth is not what it is? No, not really. I don’t think it shapes the way I handle the information I am presented. Isn’t it common knowledge that everyone has vested interest in something, after all? Why wouldn’t there be vested interest when choosing to divulge information?

So, let’s pick out a simple truth. Something for me to do a show-and-tell with to demonstrate my point.

I am an introvert.

This is my perception of truth. You couldn’t tell me, “You liar, I saw you being all extroverted yesterday,” and expect me to change my mind about myself.

So, then, you compare my introverted-ness to a set of standards and check my traits off the list.

Do I prefer to be alone? Yes and no.

Do I consider books my true friends? Yes and no.

Do I have more than 5 friends? Yes and no.

How do you work around that? That is to say, how do you work around how complex facts are?

Okay, I have to digress here. Here’s a statement of fact: You are a human and you can feel. I find this amazing. You are human, you breathe, you move, you think, you feel. You could be a dog and do this and there would be a certain degree of complexity assigned to your interactions but to be human is almost remarkable (remarkably painful, at times, but that’s a matter for another day).

Consider for a moment, this blog post. You read it and your brain processes what my brain is trying to communicate. It interpreted those italics in a certain tone, for example, and you can read my excitement growing with the words that litter the page in organised paragraphs.

Consider for a moment, love. That ridiculous force that throws people together and weaves stories and composes songs by simply existing. How is it that we can grasp love? How is it that it can keep us up at night, whether it is love for ourselves or love for another? Why is it so heartbreaking when a love is abandoned? Why is it so euphoric when it is embraced? Why is it that we cannot accept that they are chemicals in our brain?

Because we’re more than that, aren’t we?

To steer myself back on track: is our being human a truth or merely a perceived truth? I don’t mean “human” as if I’m asking you if you are a homo sapiens.

Are you as human as you believe you are?

Of course, I’m meandering down a path of a useless exercise. How my brain revels in such a past time.

But it ties itself to another question: is my estimate of my worth justified? Have I overvalued myself? (If you talk to me, you’d probably think I’ve undervalued myself. I think not. Mother Theresa, maybe, undervalued herself. I have nothing to value myself with.) Is there a point of valuing myself if it drives my service with less than altruistic motives?

And, now, you think, “My, this writer certainly babbles.”

You are right, sir/madam.

Or at least that is our shared perception of this small truth.

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