Strawberry Fields Forever: Nothing is Real

Language and words are merely forms of expression. Writing is an art. It is intrinsically flawed in its distance from the ideal it symbolizes. The catch is that even the author doesn't fully comprehend the transcendent they are reaching for. Grounded on earth as mortals, we cannot embrace, but only blindly chase after these truths. The writer's self and morality seep into their writing, serving as a distortion they themselves create. The truth we glimpse in text and speech is the reflection found in a concave mirror. It takes cross-perspectives and opposing angles to piece the authentic together. We can close in on the truth and try to trap it by teamwork. Philosophers want to be challenged. By outstretching our hands we can feel around the borders and get an idea of its limits. By poking and prodding, the concept begins to find depth and solidity. It is an "infinitely regenerating" truth as complexities are added. Philosophers are marauders, picking up on the treasures another leaves behind, discarding the weaker aspects, continually tightening the circle of discourse closer around the truth. Several distinct interpretations, even if wrong, are needed to weed out the weaker aspects.