The thing about fiction, or truth, is that we always construct our definitions in a circular manner from other texts and words, assertions and statements. (This represents an accelerating and incomplete, self-gravitating logical system of aggregating complexity). We perhaps have to define truth and/or fiction to attempt to unravel the apparent facts of our existence and in this we rapidly become ensnared in the grand circularity of texts and philosophical assertions or opinions which characterise and compose the shared world of belief and illusion.  Definitions in this way point to other definitions which themselves point to further definitions and we tend to mistake this complex network of interdependent contingent references as being self-consistent and necessary, as being truth.


That self (individual or collective) that we absorb from, or project into, the world – this is actually a (self-!) representation of that vast and ballooning internal symbolic space between the two endpoints of this equation. Self and world are assumed anchors and concrete points of logical reference and in this blossoming vacuum between them we construct or generate, perhaps only witness, these emergent worlds of meaning and fiction.  The only plausible, explicable reality – limited in some way to the interior labyrinthine surfaces of some purely subjective, phenomenal possibility space – is that augmented dimension between these two endpoints; that tapestry or web of logic and meaning between those two notional anchors of self and world; themselves entirely inflated by this consensus fiction, and – perhaps inevitably – here we find ourselves in the improbably banal no-man’s land of language, communication, ideology and art.  We are snared upon the razor-wire of our own meaning-making, empty straw men suspended in a middle ground between two nothings…

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