Part-time postmodern

I am blessed with very smart friends who help elevate the level of discourse that is constantly running in my own head. As prompted by their recent posts, thinking about writing, reading and speaking as betrayal has been putting quite the drain on the electrical currents in my brain. Despite the likely non-existence of a meta-minerva-narrative (no matter what my mother says), I love the idea that with every word I write, read or utter I may be exfoliating my being. But what does it say that I still find myself wondering about Truth? Perhaps it says that my frontal cortex is still recovering from years of Sunday School indoctrination, but I should hope I'm beyond that by now. I once asked a reasonable theologian I know about postmodern hermeneutics, who laughed dismissively and responded that they are inherently contradictory terms. Funny how working with people who are processing what "end-of-life" means brings all this stuff to the fore. Is being a thoroughgoing postmodern a luxury?