Elephant

The dwarf spoke, "All truth is crooked."

Every time I ask the question, "What is true?" I inevitably end with the same answer: nothing. Aside from obvious physical truths, I can never seem to find objectivity in anything. In politics, in creation, in purpose, I always stop before this great, unbreachable wall, feeling that if only I could scale it, or break it, or peep through a crack in it, everything would be resolved.

Some simply ignore the elephant in the room. Others defer to the judgment of higher powers. I guess I do neither, finding little certainty or comfort, anxiously keeping my eyes on the elephant as I continue on past it. But it follows me for the most part, only leaving me when the room grows too hot or too dark. Yet as I've moved forward, we've grown closer, and I've realized that the elephant isn't a problem unless I make it to be one; it's just there, and there's really nothing I can do about it.

So does it really matter what happens to Schrodinger's cat? Does it really matter if there's anything behind the big wall obstructing truth?

Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't.