“Where do the answers lie?” She asks herself this question in every context, but it rests on a convenient assumption: that answers exist. Her father says they exist, and so does God. So does her husband, her doctor, her professors, and the President. They all spread before her a silver platter with an arrangement of answers. “Choose any- they’re all true,” they say. A woman and all her experiences can be defined by all kinds of labels very easily and thoroughly. Passive. Slutty. Angry bitch. Sweet but stupid. Immature. Irresistible.
“Is there no need to hear the voices of the unheard?” she asks herself. He says it’s unnecessary, but she doubts her experiences can be defined by a single myth or truth. Is she crazy? The idea of a label is ridiculous to her, who cannot put into English what she is. She feels filled up and held together by a tangled ball of threads, an unpatterned spider’s web, that holds with it’s sticky fibers connections and voids of the unknown, unwritten. Her stories and experiences are all interconnected, and every day weaves another thread of knowledge. She wonders if the purpose is to define, or simply acknowledge. She doesn’t know. It’s grey.
The answers she’d been presented with lacked the openness there was in her web-of-knowledge, and she imagined that if others lent her their thread, the web could grow larger and stronger. Realities could be rewritten and release her from her obligation to choose an answer.
“Is there no need to hear the voices of the unheard?” she asks herself. He says it’s unnecessary, but she doubts her experiences can be defined by a single myth or truth. Is she crazy? The idea of a label is ridiculous to her, who cannot put into English what she is. She feels filled up and held together by a tangled ball of threads, an unpatterned spider’s web, that holds with it’s sticky fibers connections and voids of the unknown, unwritten. Her stories and experiences are all interconnected, and every day weaves another thread of knowledge. She wonders if the purpose is to define, or simply acknowledge. She doesn’t know. It’s grey.
The answers she’d been presented with lacked the openness there was in her web-of-knowledge, and she imagined that if others lent her their thread, the web could grow larger and stronger. Realities could be rewritten and release her from her obligation to choose an answer.