["Convinced myself, I seek not to convince" (Poe).]

There's a certain serenity in the futile. If there is truth, and goodness, light, and right, then the dark can be distinguished and extinguished. If, however, truth is illusory, an arbitrary construct that is in contiual conversation with itself, then darkness and light, too, begin to fade. There is an omnipresence of possibility, a continual set of decisions being made that, it is true, arise from a set of predefined terms, but these terms are within themselves meaningless and subject to change. These decisions, then, also have the potential to be redefined, axioms shifted, morals adjusted; there is nothing inherently light about lightness, nothing inherently good about goodness, nothing that makes a tree a "tree..." and therefore, if truth is unattainable, it can be conveniently reshaped, fashioned to suit the teller; the hive can swarm with possibility and breathe.