Friday, 7 September 2012

Can you handle the truth?

The truth is a funny thing in our day and age. I am told that many are looking for it and some are even finding it in small increments, which is probably better then the all out kick to the groin of realizing just how big the lie truly is all at once. Well, metaphorically speaking anyway. Because it really is not all about one big lie but thousands of small lies in varying states of decay, each of which has repeatedly battered, tortured, and raped the truth until it is so unrecognizable that one can barely discern it even when it is staring you right in the face.

You see, it isn't that the truth is not out there, so much as it is that the truth has to pin you down and force feed you until you are ready to vomit before you actually accept it for what it is. You've been trained all your life to be afraid of the truth; the truth is the boogerman (wink); the truth is Pandora's brain fart; the truth leaves a bad taste in your mouth; the truth is more toxic than fluoridated radioactive particles; and the truth will draw out the four horsemen of the Appalachians.

Once you've looked the end of days in the face and cackled wickedly, actually believing yourself to be the devil, once you've realized that fear is simply an egomaniac with erectile dysfunction, and once you've readied yourself for the truth to explode and take everything you know and love with it (including yourself), a whole new universe is born around you.

That universe is still populated with all you knew and loved, and it is still somewhat familiar in that the corner store still sells your favorite jube-jubies. All the ingredients are still in there but somehow they taste different now. Things feel more and less like they did before you opened Pandora's rabbit-hole and landed through the mirror. It isn't so much scary as it is creepy to realize that you see and hear things now that nobody else does.

Yes. The eternal dog whistle is now ever visible between the lies, and if you keep your eyes open long enough you can almost taste it too. It isn't so much that nobody else around you can smell the shit-pile being flung around the room, but that they've become dependent on ignoring it, like that little voice in your head that knows you can't party all night on a week-day, but eventually stops nagging you once you've fed it enough beer. In fact, that might be the cleverest analogy I've heard myself type in a long time.

Once the dust settles and you understand that you are not the Devil that you once believed yourself to have been, because the world did not end ---per-say, you gain a certain clarity of perception. Granted the truth is still so damned ugly that you wish Homer's makeup gun really had been invented and had three or four settings above and beyond whore, but you are a lot less disturbed to look her straight in the face knowing that doing so did not turn you into stone, or a pillar of salt-water-taffy (it must be nearing lunch-time). Only now the new problem arises. Zombies...

Yes, they are real, they just don't look like the 'Hollywood boulevard street-tramps who beggar you for brains or spare change' kind, which you were likely expecting to see. They look almost exactly like you did while you were still one of them... Possibly even as recently as yesterday, but it could have been much longer ago than that... You never really remember when you quit zombie-ism cold turkey, but it often feels like only a few days ago for a few decades or a millennium. In actually, it doesn't really matter when it happened, but you never forget how it happened... Like having sex while sky-diving, I would assume nobody could ever forget doing such a thing, well, except for that problem where I like to take my time in these situations, so maybe I would not have to remember such an event for very long. Wow, I might have just shortened my bucket list to one item, and I am excruciatingly off-topic.

So, there you are, surrounded by zombies, holding the cure for zombie-ism in unlimited supply, and yet it is completely ineffective unless the zombie is willing to be cured.

You know you are a slave to the machine as well as zombie food because Truth told you it was so, and you believed her... This makes you postulate that repetitive strain injuries can affect mental health, because you now you recognize the rat-race to not have an end, and you suspect there is no cheese. You are left to fret and stress over why zombies can't seem to see or hear Truth, and wonder if there may be some magic-spell-like combination of words that draws the attention of everyone in earshot. The only reassurance that you are not insane is that there are others out there to whom Truth tells the exact same stories, and that none of those stories involve random killing just for kicks...

As unrewarding as it all may sound, you do take pride in learning new things, and gravitate to reading everything you can jam into your eyeballs, if only to analyze it for where the lies begin. Because, in reality, or the fake construct of debased reality if you're still a zombie, lies crumble when they do not contain some truths. ie: Osama Bin Laden was killed by navy seals on May 2nd 2011 in Abbottabad. The truth is underlined, in case you missed it... Actually I have no proof he was ever even in Abbottabad, but it sounds plausible that at some time, since I am not stating 'when', he could have been. Maybe he was in Pakistan while we were being sold the wholesale bullshit about the terrorist bat-cave. Maybe I am constructing my own lie, and maybe I have just unlocked a part of the riddle, but I am not going to claim that I'm certain in this instance, because I am just spit-balling ideas as a reference.

I must admit that I've seen a great many people move to my side of the fence in recent years so it's possible the liars have gotten lazy in their smug belief that people will believe anything. No worries, there's plenty of room, I just hope you haven't arrived too late to fix things.

Truth may have plenty of patience, but I perceive that the ground is getting closer and the act must be finished and rip-cords pulled 'Please return zippers to their updone positions'. The final stages of the present lies, while obvious to some, are not resonating loud enough to wake even the yappiest, most territorial small dog. And I suspect that actual, hard, and undeniable evidence might have been accidentally swallowed on purpose (or do I mean by porpoises?).

But again, many out there are seeking truth and unearthing different bits of the same puzzle, and in so doing are making waves in the toilet water much to the chagrin of our owners.


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