Truth

It is so easy to fill in the page, to cover all that white with little black letters, one following the next, a full stop, a space, just emptiness between shapes… and the words dance and sway, they prolong each other and the sentences resonate. But where is the truth…

There are stories that touch your heart, that make you shiver and sometimes, only sometimes, your eye waters, a tear falls, darkness shadows your soul briefly, so briefly it’s fleeting. And when their music ends, reality sets back in. A reality that lacks romanticism, a reality of dirty dishes and errands to run, a reality of obligations and duties, a reality one cannot escape and must face. But the words were there, you remember how they made you feel. You remember what was between the lines, a glimpse of truth. 

Or was it simply a mirage? A clever trick to disguise the sorrow that’s palpable and always there somehow… Is it all words, filling in the blanks?

I take comfort in the melodic rhythm of a keyboard reacting to my touch. The slow and steady music of these little squares of plastic forced down by my fingers before being liberated once again. Tortured, they go up and down, up and down and the music plays and the pages get filled, the story unfolds. Within those simple shapes lie understanding, communication, and language. It is but silence being shouted out loud. 

There’s nothing more satisfying for a writer than finally being able to type those two little words: the end. It’s an accomplishment, like an opera that abruptly ends and leaves the reader to himself and his thoughts. He reads between the lines, deciphers what is not there, and can draw conclusions he already knew. The writer did nothing but held a hand, told a story, lullabies the reader and like a child, he slumbers, comforted by the knowledge that he has learned, grown, that he is wiser.

But the writer has only questions; questions he doesn’t know the answers to. There is no truth, no greater purpose. It is a lost soul typing away at meaninglessness. 

I have often mentioned the coming of the end of days. Last December was to be the revelation, the apocalypse that would end it all. The Big Guy in the sky wasn’t ready for an ending yet apparently. And so everything continued; nobody held their breath, nobody stopped. I did. 

I stood, looking at the sky, knowing fully that I would see nothing more than blues and whites. But I set aside some time and looked at the truth of the never-ending continuity. And as I looked on, passed the high-risers, blotting out the sounds of a city fully immersed in its daily goings on, I got lost in the immensity of my tininess. And then I typed, much like I’m typing now, furiously, dementedly, typing to get to the point, to get to the end, to get to the truth… I collapsed, drained; I couldn’t type anymore because the truth kept eluding me. The letters piled themselves; it was a logorrhea of sentences, of paragraphs that seemed endless. I just wanted to get to the end part. I never got there. I don’t think anyone can. Even the Mayans got it wrong. And so it continues, a sentence will lead the way to another one and in its midst a question will arise and another and another… and maybe the truth lies in its search.