I love secrets. I love the idea that a simple truth can hide behind a web of lies, or a lie behind truths. I love complexity, and the surprising order that can suddenly spring out of it. There is a part of me that wants to be an illustrator, and communicate scientific concepts through effective, elegant visuals; but the part of me that loves secrets keeps getting in the way, erasing my own drawings, spilling paint onto graphs and equations, and insisting on bringing all of my emotional baggage into the picture.
I would like to be the kind of artist that deals primarily in truths, and invites others into the joy of investigation with clarity; but instead, I'm an arguer, a question-asker, a bet-hedger, and a hoarder of unnecessary secrets. The truth is that nothing is easy to understand and we all see the world through the warped lenses of our own neurotic confusion.
I think there are beautiful and ugly secrets beyond that, but I will never know for sure; and so while I long to share them with you, I cannot do it without maintaining my own plausible deniability. I wish for success (which, to me, means understanding), but I don't believe in it, and I find failure more interesting anyway. I will never settle on a single, coherent story that I call true, and I will never give up the delusion that I may someday find it.