I was the more deceived.

As a young person, I was enamored with a kind of truth. The truth, beauty, beauty truth kind. The romantic truth, the truth hiding behind everyone’s masks, the one everyone was denying as they drank their wine coolers and pretended to enjoy one another’s company. The one that hid behind the thing that led them to do things that they didn’t want to do, that led them to attend colleges they didn’t want to go to and study things they didn’t want to study, the kind of truth that usually wore black and talked about the hard stuff. It was my own truth perhaps. I was enamored of my own truth, it was my North Star, my guideline, my compass.But all those people I thought were lying to themselves and to others have houses and steady incomes and families and will end their lives with grandchildren surrounding them, with extended families from here to there, with a legacy to leave.
Truth can be a cold comfort. 


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