If there is a thing that can’t be stopped, it’s not possible for there to be something else which can’t be moved.
If motion* begets sanity, then the idea of ‘rightness’ and the general notion of truth is in itself a futile desiderata, almost superfluous, inevitably fallacious. Because when we feel that something or someone is true, we stop*. Often, we find ourselves (in that precise moment of being static) misreading this halting sense as a state of stability, of wholeness, where we end up saying something along the lines of “I am complete, this is perfect and I don’t need anything more than this” (note: dramatization). The end in itself that we should be looking for, aren’t fixed meanings, aren’t static answers. They aren’t closures, rightness, truths.
In fact, look for wrongness; for fiction, the unknown* because they are dependable, accurate, consistent: the only thing that exists, the only thing that moves, and the only thing that eliminates what separates you and I. Only then, we’d know that truth and love and everything else doesn’t exist. I mean they do as thing-in-itself, as utterances, in which we will never be able to disclose and contain such secrecy. But that is what makes love more desirable, the idea of loving plausible, conversations like these memorable.