Everyone thinks they want the cold, hard truth until they hear it. Since we’re inching up on the the tail end of 2012 I’ve been thinking about some of the deceptions I’ve endured this year, some self encouraged, others madly blindsiding. It’s in the name of our own self-preservation that we tightly hold on to illusions that can easily be found in the light of reality. Maybe that blindness is the byproduct of youthful hope. A virgin to life feels the burn of the first few scorns deeper, but the same can also be said for the joys. I wish I could go back to a time before I lost that innocence, when trust was free flowing and optimism abundant. I’d bottle the essence of that to unearth in minor doses because if I even had 1/16th of that kind of belief at this point of life I’d be astounded. I don’t mean to shed such a fatalistic hue to my overall happy existence but I have come to the conclusion that truth is everything. Friends older than me always lament about their 30’s and what an uplifting time period it is because you “no longer care, everything rolls off you.” This seems fucking delightful in theory, please, take me on the express to No Fucksville. However, there is something frightening about the loss of that much innocence that both terrifies me and makes me sad. Does the truth and lack of care leave us a better version of ourselves or just the shell of dreams never actualized?
My mother always told me, even from childhood 2 key things:
1. Never rely on a man
2. Nothing in life is perfect, things rarely turn out the way you want them to
Thanks ma, I was just trying to cop that ill crimp hair Cabbage Patch doll, not get slapped with life lessons. That’s one of the gems of living in an immigrant household, truth is not optional but it’s expected. Okay I admit…maybe shreds of cynicism have existed in my soul from minutes after birth but I feel that’s plenty of people. My life began far from perfect, dipping into dysfunction at an early age and never in an immoral way, mostly the offspring of hardship. To not accept the truth became my favorite fantasy, manifesting its way through making music – free therapy, why not? Because of my comfort level with receiving and dishing the truth I feel I’m both better off and set back all in one. White lies are sometimes comforting and no matter how badly we want I be dished the truth, is it always that important at the cost of our sanity, ego and hope? I used to carelessly throw the daggers, these days I play my cards with precision and compassion.
I’d let Henry Rollins lie to me…