TRUTH

The Search Continues

Honest writing merely highlights what has always been a battle for the writer: self-discovery. Sure, every serious writer sets out to create a bit of Truth with beauty. But Truth and beauty, for most of us, aren’t even holding hands, much less on speaking terms with happiness.

I am no longer young, and yet, like a child, I can still be hurt when others don’t share my feelings. I am hurt by the contrived truths that others prefer to live with to be happy. Perhaps it is my presumption that is the contrivance; it is my fault for expecting everyone to see what I see. Feel the national injustice I feel. Too ego-centric? Yes. I am told this daily - that I am viewing my charming, sweet life through the jagged, atonal whisperings of my fears.

Does that make the search for Truth irrelevant? If Truth is self-evident, then why can’t everyone see the cowardly man, with one hand a stranglehold on the soft neck of Truth, in the other a gun; no trigger, no smoke, just the threat of a blast that will reverberate throughout the land, opening earth’s great maw to drag Truth’s mangled soul into the void of an unchecked world?

And perhaps centuries of an eye-for-an-eye have made everyone blind.