I need to pause, reflect, and collect myself. The writing pace has been frenzied, as emotions, memories, and ideas surface at rapid-fire speed. As suddenly as the floodgates opened, I find they close—a seeming period of insanity ends, if only momentarily. This is a process of translation, of dictation, and of speculation. What do these strange passages mean, what do they reveal?
"Writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin. Writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing." Roland Barthes, Image, Music, Text. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977
You think you know us from these words? Are you attempting to decipher who we are, from what we write? What if we are weaving a great deception, what if I have been stealing stories from others and presenting them as my own? Truth has been distorted, and it is fair to say: I do not really know what I have written, I only think I know. It is you, the reader, in the position of power to determine what it all means.
FIONA
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