The Lies Of Truth

They say —

truth will set you free.

But no one remembers to mention —

freedom itself is a construct,

a shape-shifting hallucination

built on the ruins of another man’s imprisonment.

Truth is no monument—

it’s a ghost of smoke.

The more you try to hold it,

the more it stings your eyes

and slips like ash

through your trembling fingers.

You and I speak —

you call it conversation.

I call it confession.

The bystander?

They call it confrontation.

The historian?

He calls it a version.

Each of us certain,

each of us fractured.

Truth is no singularity.

It’s a war of worlds,

a fistfight of banal egos

arguing over who gets remembered.

Even the idea that this —

is a conversation —

is belief masquerading as fact.

You hear exchange.

I hear excavation.

They hear evidence.

And belief, my friend,

is bias in a designer dress,

trauma inherited as tradition from ancestral ghosts.

Truth lives inside the skull,

stuck like a fishbone, between memory and fear.

Memory?

Memory is a drunken god—

stumbling, rewriting the past

to numb a restless present.

So when they say —

“Speak your truth,”

ask:

Which one?

The one I endured?

The one I edited for peace?

Or the one you need

to protect your myth?

If no truth is absolute,

how do you define a lie?

Your lie

may be another’s miracle.

A lie to me

might be the only story

that made silence bearable.

Right and wrong —

don’t wear uniforms.

They wear context.

They wear culture.

They wear centuries

of stitched-up sermons

masquerading as commandments.

Justice?

Justice is not law.

Law is framework.

Justice is a wound—

throbbing when ignored,

bleeding when denied.

Law can be amended.

Justice only haunts.

We weren’t born into facts.

We were born into narratives —

inherited,

refined,

recycled.

And in those narratives,

truth isn’t spoken —

it’s staged.

Truth is theatre.

Scripts,

lighting,

applause.

And like every theatre,

it demands sacrifice.

So before you ask for truth,

ask yourself:

Can you bear the cost

of dismantling your version?

Because truth isn’t liberation —

it’s a knife.

Blunt. Uneven.

Pressed hard against your skin.

Never quite deep enough to kill —

but always enough to bleed.

And all of us —

we clutch our wounds,

bleeding in silence,

waiting for the hand

that will either pull the blade free —

or twist it deeper.

And sometimes,

we twist it ourselves,

just to feel

something real.