Perhaps ambivalence (ambiguity?) is a maelstrom.
Truth and freedom: words of consolation: Janus-faced words rippling forwards and backwards in time.
Suicide, the one time?
Stones and roots and winnow the fields. Winnow memory and winnow the man.
I choose these words from the many words that litter the floor beneath this desk to establish a voice that is sufficiently supple to tell a story into meaning.
This is the story of Ian, a man tormented by failure. Truth and freedom elude him. Yet, identity waits, his soul waits, for a time when he can finally accept the betrayal? that he does not know and will never know who he is, or was, or will be.
I wish to tell a story that relates what I can not honestly (openly) relate to myself ... So, Ian's story will be related by a narrator. The narrator is intelligent, if judgmental and too concerned with his own image. He is also honest (mostly), though he lacks awareness and insight about many things and often confuses perception, imagination and judgment.
Though perhaps I overstep myself. I'm not sure about what I've just written ... Though I do know (and upon reflection, must mention) that my dissatisfaction with the narrator almost led me to look for another one. But I've already been waiting so long to begin. And besides, then I would've broken my promise to him and been crushed by guilt. But that is another story. Another one that I haven't told to myself yet. Though perhaps I will. Someday. But I forget myself ...
This is Ian's story. I leave you with the narrator. And a story.