Truth Is…Truth

Nothing is true. Everything, every glimpse, holds falsity. The world, its peoples, even life itself submits to imitation. Why? Truth seems so vacant, its features so welcoming, its voice so enchanting yet all things mock and taunt this deep beauty, staining it, making it impure until even truth’s beautiful form becomes a lie.

What happens when truth becomes a lie? When truth becomes just another soulless face flaunting its beauty like a harlot?

Truth is relative, so the wise always say. To some it’s water, soft and sweet but to others it’s fire, strong and bitter and to a very few it is…nothing. Dreams, they say, are illusions, lies to delude us into believing there is hope, that there exists some reality.

I say, the wise are fools. Truth has no rival, no relative, no equivalent. TRUTH! And no echo comes. TRUTH! And no reflection appears for TRUTH is devoid of self, of soul, of heart, for TRUTH is just and true.

When words pour out like music into this realm and strike the unearthly strings of creation, truth surfaces and for a moment the Journal that relishes Time’s partial devotion, becomes Truth-stained. Truth has many names, Candor, Verity, Veracity yet all of them are fictional, undeserved, unbalanced, unequal for Truth cannot be expressed in words, in names; it must be revealed and so I limit my pen to these words: Truth reigns.

Farewell,
The Weaver


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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

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