I am so obsessed with postmodernism recently that I am barely able to function in any capacity removed from thought or discussion of this movement. I am unable even to enter or hold a conversation without broaching the subject, often in the guise of a joke, but the desire for serious exchange always exists at the back of my mind. I have become a machine for considering an idea; I am good for little else and am even quite inefficient in this function, for after considering the issue for a period of time my mind perverts it into something not the same at all. This is a disturbing trend recently in my evaluation of ideas, that I may look at something in earnest only until I begin to gain understanding, at which point I have abstracted it to the point of universal truth. It is at this point that I decide truth is unattainable or does not exist; there is no truth other than identity. It is with all this in mind that I began to examine postmodernism.
I began with an initial conception of postmodernism which was based on years of hearing a word without understanding its meaning; I borrowed parts of different philosophies and gave meaning to something which before had none. I decided the best use for my self-given knowledge was the creation of a play, a postmodern work of art, focused on postmodern ideals, built with a postmodern structure in mind, expressing a postmodern world. .
I decided the play would be written in the form of a novel. I would include in the preface an explanation, saying that I never wanted to see the play produced, that I hoped in masking its form I would also hide my own inadequacies. I would also, in an attempt to sound more sincere, more real, more down to earth and in touch with the common man, hint that I would secretly delight in seeing the play produced. I became fixated with the idea that my book would contain five chapters and three subsections which would overlap the actual chapters.
