Submarines are boats that go underwater, for your information.  This, coincidentally, is a metaphor for how I conceal the truth, or think I conceal the truth, when I write.  I don’t really have any control over what truth there is in my writing, but I have happened to notice that what I write usually has nothing to do with anything I’ve ever done before, or even with anything I’ve thought of before.  Usually, I try to think of something new to write about, something so disconnected from my person that it doesn’t have a personal feel to it.  Unfortunately, I’ve also noticed that on occasion, or actually most times I write, that no matter how random or how distant I try to make my subject matter, it still retains an undercurrent of my personality, and the truths that I believe in.  That is, to put it in highly symbolical speech, my truth is a submarine.

Once, I had to write a paragraph introducing myself to my English teacher.  I couldn’t think of anything interesting, or I was too scared to, and instead just made something up.  I wrote about how I was a Coke guy, and how Pepsi made every day I lived worse.  Until that moment, I had never thought of that before and I had never connected it to myself.  But, at that moment, it became a truth of my way of living and of my mentality.  This seems like a good moment to return to my grand overarching metaphor and tell you that at this moment, the Submarine of Truth surfaced and inhaled some fresh air.