A beautiful fiction: a gossamer
cloak. This is the way it was. This is the way he supposed it had to be. Liars lie to others, but visionaries only lie
to themselves.
Truth—a desperate demand. But a
point on which both sides agreed—a seeming simple request. It was the only way to pierce the sublimating
suffocating gauze known as reality. Fiction
would be the tool that would enable glimpses of the truth. In desperation, elegant lenses were hastily crafted. Through these distorted shades the viewer
gained the ability to catch glimpses of the glory of the truth without being
consumed. A slight veneer as subtle as
it was soft. A diffuse lace really, a
simple block strong enough to hold back the savage dogs of reality. Lumbering beasts whose gnashing teeth and wailing
howls filled with wrath were abated at the gate. Even if it was only for a moment, in the
darkness one is desperate to see any light, regardless of how fleeting. All one had to do, was suspend disbelief.
Liars lie to others, visionaries
only lie to themselves.
But it was a necessary
fiction. The truth was too
powerful. The undertow was constant. Through the lenses of fiction, desperate memories
of the bitter were made sweet. Just as
in the greatest of epics, piecemeal fiction patched up glaring
discrepancies. Myths created to espouse
the ideal, to cling to. fiction became
the ramshackle framework which surrounded the truth. He still hasn’t figured out if it acted to
reinforce, or to contain its power.
Regradless, under the protection of diffusion, momentary lapses forgiven
while discrepancies disbelieved. Just as
parched soil eagerly accepts the rain, desperate hearts soaked in fiction to
regain that thought lost. Though it
never really was: at least not for him.
What was the price of disbelief? Hearts were made whole. Bodies strong. Beauty remembered and made eternal as it
always was and always will be. The
gentle breath of her “Hello,” created a rampant bonfire intense in its clarity
from a patch of embers that had long smoldered.
Liars lie to others, but
visionaries only lie to themselves.
Why would one do it? To return to Eden, to submerge in healing
waters to be made whole, to embrace a
haunting truth that hung like a shadow
The cloister created of the two became their world. In the refuge from the chaos it was only the
one made from the he and the she. And it
was beautiful.
Reality however, has a way to distract. Once eyes are look to the ground one returns
to it. Like the lost boys in Peter Pan,
you can soar with eagles… unless you doubt your ability to fly. Once this is doubted, it is forever lost. So began her slow descent. While Peter, the eternal puck, desperately
clung to Wendy’s wrist… she continued her downward trek.
She no longer wanted to fly, or at least not with Peter. So he became the Pan, forever fighting off
Hook for the sake of a Wendy who had long since left neverland. Sad Peter or sad Wendy? So difficult to tell when one is lost in the
crux of truth and fiction.
Liars lie to others, but
visionaries only lie to themselves.
So how does the tale end if such
tales ever do? In our last conversation,
her eyes had dulled. Forever fearing
confrontation or fact of being caught, she remained in reserve. I didn’t know how to respond. Was she more mournful over that which she had
lost or that which she had gained? It
matters little. At least that is what I
tell myself. Little more than a touch of
fiction, as long as I realize its fiction.
Flying solo had given him a perspective to see clearer. The patchwork of fiction that had allowed the
union had slowly dissolved. It had not
melted into t ramshackle tower waiting for the truth to tumble down in a
calamitous crush; it’s stasis had allowed the truth time to heal. Like a broken limb, casts had been removed.
In exposing his wounds to the air they had healed. He knew she longed to fly, and flew still,
just not with him. A truth that is
sad. But in its revelation, it is
beautiful. By being made real, by letting
go of Wendy’s wrist, she is made real and all the more beautiful.
Truth has done nothing to diminish
the beauty of reflections. Although the
rippled image in the pond is little more than a rippled image in a pond, it is
something still cherished. The ashen
embers have returned to grey, waiting to burst forth but until then it must be
remembered…
Liars lie to others, but
visionaries only lie to themselves.
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