It’s a wonder that any truths can be discerned from all the fictions we tell. We carry two versions of ourselves: the person we are striving to become (because we choose it/because it is pressed upon us/because it is socially demanded) and the flawed, insecure, works-in-progress individuals we actually are. Tales are spun to create the more pleasing face we wish to show the world, perhaps someone more emotionally mature and independent… most are conscious of the dichotomy we create between the world at large and the places we call home, and although uncomfortable with the facade the reality is accepted and the game is played in order to get by.
But sometimes the fiction is mistakenly recognized as truth and becomes a disturbingly negative pseudo-reality; truth and fiction can become so tangled that freedom seems difficult to find. How long before the lack of real honesty with one’s self corrodes the soul? Such heavy, constant weaving of tales and of being so far removed from one’s own personal truths is bound to lead to some rather unhealthy consequences… and here I am, watching it, wondering, waiting.
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