The Truth Board

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The Truth About the Fact: An International Journal of Literary Nonfiction

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The Truth About the Fact: A Journal of Literary Nonfiction is an international journal committed to the idea that excellence in the art of letters can play a vital role in transforming the planet we share.

Sunday, April 22, 2012


Whatever “being pragmatic” meant clearly escaped me. I realize that now, looking back. I had cleared out this space in my mind, small enough so that I could fill it completely with the thoughts that were not my own. I gathered scraps of opinions but instead of comprising a comprehensive answer I threw each one carelessly about the frontal lobe. I would have to clean up my mess later, but for right now I was “problem-solving,” and I couldn’t be bothered.
Scenario A has three possible outcomes.
I would go down the line, taking mental notes as each person shared their unique vision for me. My actions were too hard, too soft, too clearly naïve. I nodded, filling the space.
“Tell me what I should do.” Should of, could of, would of. That’s where the pragmatics comes in. Lack thereof, that is.
These eyes and mouths contort, spewing inaudible judgement. Familiar with my various states of indecisiveness, they press on.
Isn’t it funny how all advice is situated in personal circumstance? Suddenly I’m thrown a mess of conclusions, of different scenarios of which I was never a part of. My mind goes blank as I watch my best friend, pantomiming a memory in front of me, sitting cross-legged, using her small hands to paint a personalized portrait of how I am to fix this problem.
“And that’s when you know you’ve really encountered a narcissistic asshole.”I catch this ending snippet, and immediately tag it as the thesis of the essay she had just recited to my deaf ears.
“You weren’t listening at all, were you?” I give her a small, apologetic smile. That five second escape to my own thoughts has me suddenly feeling accidentally unappreciative.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “Will you repeat that last part?”
Again she launches into the scene for me. When I shut off this time, I begin to sketch this scene. Creating this memory like so many before, of this room and this air. The way she sits, head in one hand, a full glass of wine in the other. Lying on my stomach, elbows propped up on a pillow, cocking my head to the side to make it easier to catch and soak up all of her wisdom. Wisdom no more aged than mine, yet it’s already seized meaning much different than my own.
Just like so many of the others, we come to this spot to trade, unselfishly and unapologetically. Honesty gets easier as time goes on. I’ll hoard these secrets, these stories, the shortcomings, the heartbreaks; carry them with me to end – to that place where I’ve used every last last drop of meaning in their inheritance. And then, without selfishness, I’ll contribute them to the next unfilled frontal lobe, the next naïve, trusting body and hope that perhaps they’ll fare much better than we ever did.



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