There is no such thing as a naked truth. It is shrouded in the gossamer wisps of individual perception; it’s honest beauty a guileless ingenue, costumed for its audience. Truth is subjective. It is inhibited by our own limitations. It is viewed through the lenses of our own experiences.
There is a difference between truthfulness and honesty, though for one to be honest it is expected that one tells the truth. But the truth I have to tell is only the truth as *I* see it. I cannot see out from behind your eyes, particularly considering that *your* eyes are closed. Forever. I must, as always, rely on my own.
But you would appreciate that sentiment, I think. ‘On my own’ was a phrase you repeated religiously, after all. But was it pride in the fact that you made your own way? A simple statement of truth? (The truth as only you knew it.) A shameful admission? A declaration of loneliness?
(My version of the) Truth be told, I believe, in hindsight, that it was some combination of all of the above. I believe the self-reliance that was required of you as a child was a crutch you leaned on your entire life. Better to isolate yourself than risk pain or loss, right? But the choice not to love kept you alone long after you were grown. And now *I’m* grown. And I believe you missed out on someone fantastic when you turned your back on me.
Yes, you turned your back on me. You did so officially when I was twelve years old, but the truth ~ MY truth ~ is that it did not require a 180 degree turn. Because I never had face time with you, even before that fateful day when you walked away. I was only ever really allowed to see you in profile. And now I’m left to wonder what was hiding in your eyes.
I may never know.
What I *do* know is that your funeral is tomorrow. I will not be there to say goodbye. I see no point in it, because there was never a hello, and because you said goodbye to me long ago.
And that, I’m afraid, is the gossamer shroud of my truth that will costume your grave.
I’ve said my piece.
Rest in peace.
It is shrouded in the gossamer wisps of individual perception; it’s honest beauty a guileless ingenue, costumed for its audience.
You are your own Shakespeare.
Oh, dear. Do I have to dress the part? I seem to have misplaced my doublet…