Truth.

"Puedo preguntar mi libro
si es verdad que yo lo escribi?" - Pablo Neruda

"Can I ask my book
if it is true even though I wrote it?"


What if it's not just a book? What if it is a life? What if an entire life has been lived out, according to what one felt was true at the time, and then at the end, the final chapter, you wonder if all compiled it tells the truth at all?

I'm at this point, a pivotal decision-making point, where I have discovered that indecision is actually a decision. And a choice to abstain from volunteering my opinion is actually an opinion all in its own. I wish to be brave and courageous and share a true voice. But I'm not sure that I have one.

I simply meander along, and when I reach a point where a decision needs to be made, I choose whatever I feel. But I don't know that it's original or unique or right or wrong or dictated by those around me or a true reflection of who I really am.

That's a foggy, fluid concept, "who I really am".

Perhaps there is a clear, concrete truth.

But I'm not really sure how much self-reflective thought it will take
to pierce through the fog and find the truth.