Do I even know what the truth is?

If someone asked me to tell them the truth of my life, I could give them a series of circuitous explanations. I would talk, quite eloquently, about my past but never reveal anything. I would tell them about my connection to a higher power, one that I have very little faith in at the moment. I would also explain how much pain I was in and then explain the existential condition of man's temporary and tragic plight on the planet earth; a life as brief as a candle waiting to be snuffed out.

I would then pontificate about the myriad of feelings associated with these descriptions of my life. I may wax poetic and sniffle a bit, my eyes welling up with tears as I become "nostalgic" for the past, the "good ol' days", knowing full well that those days never existed at all. I would try and make some kind of sense out of my suffering, out of the absurd inequity that is life, and claim that being concious is better than being unconcious because conciousness is more true. I would pat myself on the back, recognizing the courage needed to meet myself.

I would be no closer to being honest about who I am, however. The truth at this point in my life, is I will spend reams of energy on trying to convince myself that what I feel really isn't that deep. That the rage and anger and hurt and confusion that I experience in the depths of my soul are better kept at bay. That what I really need to do is "buck up, old chap". Keep that smile on my face at all costs, because "we are not a glum lot". I would miss the very real truth of who I am that an honest expression would bring. I would be spending all my time avoiding this and "acting as if".

I cannot do this anymore. It is killing me. I am ready to reveal who I am to myself in my absolute nakedness and horror. Whatever grotesque mask I shed, and what is underneath, I am ready to face. I am ready to be honest with myself, even if it brings my house down.