My Life in Pictures

Love has only to do with truth, everything else in the world is lies.

When we meet people, we want them to believe we are a certain way, a certain person, a certain intelligence, with certain talents, emotions, and so on.  We dress a certain way, say important things, laugh or act aloof, depending on the image we want to project to them.  But sometimes, we don’t.  Sometimes, people just are who they are.  They don’t care what people think, they just are what they are.  But there are no lies, no tricks.

Truth.  It’s really all there is. Honesty, integrity.  That’s all there really is.  If there isn’t truth and honesty, then there is nothing else.  Truth, even to those we hate, truth and honesty.  And I don’t mean those little white lies about whether someone actually looks good in some God-awful dress, or whether someone has to cancel an appointment because of a non-existent emergency.  I’m talking about being truthful with people when the outcome matters - when that person needs to hear the truth - when the truth might hurt you - when truth, honesty mean you can be reliable, you have integrity, and you respect the other person enough to not lie to them.

When you realize that someone cannot be trusted, cannot tell you the truth, that there are just things that you cannot see eye to eye on, what do you do?  How do you trust again? Over and over and over and over?  Words words words words.  Does it even matter any more?  No.  Not really.  Words are words, actions are actions.  Lies are lies, and truth is truth.  Change is not in the words, it can only ever be in the action, in the future, and only time will tell.

There is only truth, and then there are lies.

I’m always at the end of the line. Always in the dark. I feel so much of the time like I speak in tongues unkown to others. Filth spews from my mouth in words I think others will understand, but it is not and it pushes me even further into the dark. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to make myself seen. I only know for sure that no one can actually see me. And I an secretly glad that that they can’t.

I’m reminded on days like this how people pass through your life in a specified period of time - maybe for a specific purpose and maybe not.  In hindsight, I always wish I had not let things pass so easily or let other people interfere.  I wish that I had kept in touch, been there through it all, or had been less selfish, since, in the end, it wasn’t about me anyway.

In the end, in my selfish way, I will remember only the good, the fun, your laugh, your wisdom.  I will remember the past that I wasn’t even part of but became integrated into, the horror, the pain.  All the many people that I was introduced to and was accepted by, from the tiny, young, to the salty and old.  I am proprietary, and I was the first to know.  I was the first to accept, to be accepted.  I became angry when others knew, but they couldn’t really understand or appreciate or help, when I should have realized that sharing the past was healing.  But the healing process pushes the healer away, and in the end, I was never there, even though I was always there.

I was the guardian, I was the listener, I was the mediator, the moderator.  I was the acceptor, the accepted, I was the gentle leader, and eventually, I moved further and further to the back of the line, until I could no longer see the beginning of the line.  But I when I needed a friend, a refuge, when I needed silence and understanding, you, my friend, where there as through you could always see me at the end of the line.  I thought it would be okay.  We always had a silent bond where words were not necessary, where there was no infringing on space or boundary, where there were no questions or expectations.  It was always understood and accepted without sound.

In the first end, I was again at the end of the line, unable to help, unable to see, unable to understand, and unable to penetrate the barrier of others who stood in the way.  In the second end, you were gone without a word to me, and I was the last to know.  In the third end, you were again gone, and I was again the last to know, still at the end of the line.  I know you were in endless pain, in endless sadness, in endless wordless blackness, but you never called my name, you never asked for me, and you never looked to the back of the line.  In the end, I want only peace for you, my dear friend, for you body and for your mind.  In the end, I will never have said goodbye, not the first time, not the second time, and most certainly not the last time.

I am bitter and sad.  I am selfish in my sadness.  I will miss you, and mostly I will miss that that was never a goodbye.