Stranger than fiction

These thoughts have been chafing at me for some time now, so I'm going to try and write them out for clarity.

In the past few days I've come across three separate punchlines based on the familiar theme of truth being stranger than fiction. First, a movie, called "Stranger Than Fiction"; second, a blog, which I shall not name; third, in a book that I've been reading for the past few weeks now, trying unsuccessfully to finish it. Encountering the phrase in its various forms got me thinking about why exactly we perceive truth as being stranger than fiction. First impressions follow.

Throughout the history of civilization, we have been obsessed with finding answers. Language. Religion. Stories. The Industrial Revolution. Subjugation. Cellphones. Anna Nicole Smith (may she rest in peace). These were humankind's answers to various problems that faced it. Actually, they weren't really problems, because things are never that simple. Which is precisely my point, or going to be.

(I know I'm being a little incoherent here, and if the rest of the post turns out to be in the same vein, the world shall probably never see this. But I do have a point.)

We were sure that we needed answers, because, well - that's what we do. We answer questions. That is our prime-airy function. So when the question was posed to ourselves, by ourselves - how can we make our life better? Back came the answers, in a flood - Industries. English. Christianity. Thanksgiving. Communication.

But the question - how can we improve the quality of our lives? - was only ostensible. It was not (and is not) a real question because it did not admit of an objective answer. And so it is that Islam and Christianity are continually at each other, cell phones will render half the male population that use them sterile, and industries cause global warming and pollution. These cannot be answers to anything, least of all human comfort.


What, then, is the function of these answers? What are they good for? Here's what I think - they distract. These answers distract us from ourselves, to the point where a good fraction of us can bear our own company for no longer than a minute. Boredom settles in. Our attention span contracts, to the point where it is almost like a baby's. We fidget with the metaphorical pen on the collective desk of humanity. We want to watch TV, read a book, go outside, play the guitar, check out Youtube or MySpace, write a blog post. Do something. The point - and this is an important one - we do not know how to behave when we are with ourselves. We are puzzled when presented with our own personalities.

And all our answers, our Anna Nicoles and our Jenna Jamesons and our Salman Rushdies and our George Bushes, help us perpetuate this fantasy world we live in. We no longer have to waste time sitting all alone. We can use it in better ways. In more constructive ways.

And so, when the truth confronts us, thwacks us in the face with all its might, we do not know what to do. We cannot. Some of us cry, because we sense that the truth implicates us. Others turn away, in fear, maybe, or cowardice. Still others don't see what the big deal is about. Jeez, they say, in their own movies or TV shows, larger than life or smaller than it (but never the same size), get over it, man.

Truth is stranger to us (than fiction) because we are strangers to it.

Note to myself 1: I truly apologize for the fractured structure of the paragraphs.

Note to myself 2: The apology is not so that I can get off easy. I still take responsibility for "the fractured structure of the paragraphs", as I put it.

N.T.M. 3: Minimize the rhetorical questions.