Older, but no wiser

Roll the dice. Who will I be today? Which shell of identity will give its shape to this soft malleable core, giving the illusion of substance, of conviction, to this formless uncertainty? Each seems to fit as well as the other. With a solid enough shell, the core will conform with little resistance.

What shall I believe today? There’s an ‘r’ in the month; is this a month in which God exists, or not? Or love? Or truth? I forget... Ask too many questions and the structure unravels, one dubious premise after another.

Can identity and belief exist without words? Yet words take on a life of their own and run away with themselves; take one or two innocent words and before long a whole crowd has aggregated. Like some complex molecule growing as atom after atom finds a space for itself along the chain, words link up into an ordered chain of synthesised meaning. Each link from one word to the next seems valid, logical - right even – yet the whole chain has a structure that has coalesced only according to its own pattern, not to any pre-existing independent truth.

Words. I don’t trust 'em.