The Grave of Truth

The truth is that most things that pricked me never really surfaced. I burry and burry endlessly. There is no end to the ditch and there is no end to the burial. It just never surfaces, push for it and you’ll send it deeper in the earth, pressing it deeper in to the wet clay it is set in, it’s engravings growing sharper and more detailed with every instance.

There are days I want to unveil the grave of unknown but I know it will bring nothing to me. Unwanted sympathy, pity and the sorry face is something I absolutely detest. I sense it and I just can’t live with it. In some cases it’s too late and in others it just isn’t relevant again. You don’t take footsteps towards destinations your heart is set on walking away from. It hurts, and it is useless.

It is disappointing. It is just no good. Isn’t that why the heart walked away to begin with. Appearances can convince you of many ideas that are fake. Time is the best story teller though it is hard to listen to it because it tells the truth – the truth you believe to be the truth. There are truths out there that are just false and baseless. I never cracked them, I could never then, and now sometimes I want to give it a try. But the story is already written and given a cover. There are no spare pages left in the beginning or the end. It is signed and dedicated, it’s plot is fixed, and you’ll have to kill it to change it. It’s too late, though, and everybody else is already reading it. Everybody is reading the lies – the despicable lies. Somehow they are more entertaining than the truths. Because the truth – it is simple, innocent and just too raw to read, like alphabets in a string. The truth means nothing to anyone. Not the writers, not the readers. Try writing about the truth, or narrating it to someone. It’s just too twisted to be true. It comes across as sly, manipulating and pure evil. Don’t tell them the truth, tell them what they wanna hear. The doubt of the lie engages minds. Lies force people to think. Lies are stimulating. Lies are entertaining.

I suppose no-one will ever know the truth. It serves no good. It only fills your heart, in days of distress, you can look in to it and interpret life. Interpretation is all anybody else has. The truth is all you have. Your truths, their interpretations.

Fear probably keeps it hidden. Fear of being left behind, or rejected, or looked down upon. Fear of losing respect, social standing, grandeur. Fear of interpretations. Interpretations are why truths never come out. They stay under ground like bones in a grave, while the world builds endless tombstones and monuments above it, none of which resemble what lies at the bottom.


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