Is truth really the child of time, Will a day arrive when the truth will set me free, or have I sacrificed it to many times of the alter of my vanity? Have I modeled and shaped today’s truth to please you? Like a gift with elaborate wrapping, ribbons and bows to distract us all from this hard implacable thing with sharp edges.
There is a jersey with a small hole in the sleeve, on the days that I am the wearer I twist the tread that is coming undone, make a small knot and tuck it back in on itself. On those days I am warm, the hole is there of course it is, it will always be there. Other days I watch the mantle falls to someone else and they wear the imperfect jersey, my friend worried at the loose thread and soon there was nothing but a great tangle of wool – I wondered at them looking at the wool and calling it the truth as they stood there cold and I wondered at myself for preserving this imperfect broken thing that was not whole and never would be. Was it less of jersey for having a hole in it? Did they think that I to did not know it was only wool cleverly held together?
Jersey or wool? Whose thruth, mine or yours?
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