But truth has many faces, wouldn’t you say? It is not like a chart or a graph; it has depth, width, life, and changes the instant you shift your perspective. It is beautiful, sometimes. It is ugly, it is hideous, sometimes.
What if the truth I wanted to tell you wasn’t so beautiful? What if the truth, raw and untouched, were a ghastly thing that nobody would ever, ever want to see? If its ugliness were its truth, wouldn’t beautifying it in any way taint its purity? I want to tell you the truth, but the truth is not always beautiful. I would only want to ever speak beautiful words to you.
So I cannot tell you the truth.
I want to, though. I dearly want to. The Me that you know is a calculated, practiced personality. Shaped by both laws and freedoms, calibrated by both praise and reprimand. I want you to see me, a nameless being not defined by race or age but rather as an individual whose personality is his and his alone. And in the same way, I want to see you, for you.
Do you think it could be possible? Because I do not.