The Secret’s Garden

There is an art in discovering the truth. Its something like a torrential journey in which you can choose to revel in, revere or revile. Really, finding out the truth is like finding the secret garden in a Shakespearean maze.  There are a lot of beautiful distractions, thorny jealous vines, shady bushes to rest beneath and floral fingers that tickle the tops of your thoughts. You suffer the anxieties that come with the idea that you may never find your way out. You may never find your oasis, never find the reality of someone’s words.

There lays very little honesty in words. And the view from above is you dancing naked through aisles kissing the tu-lips.  When no one is looking, you dirty your feet in swamps and drink from bird baths.  Just when you think no one notices, you dance with the trees and fence with the frogs.  Who is finding what? And just who exactly is the truth?

Discovering the truth is a lot like a two way street of betrayal. You discover them naked and dirty, surrounded by a pile of shady gray lies. They discover you blanketed in bitterness shining bright in new beginnings and the illuminated light that is justice.  Where is the justice in a journey that leaves both parties brackish? When we unearth the under rug swept, ripping the roots right out of soiled reputation, have we ruined the roses and pissed off the peonies?


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