The more you grey —
in hair, in hormones,
in that decaying illusion called certainty —
You realise:
law and justice
aren’t siblings.
not even distant cousins.
they’re strangers who once
masturbated in adjacent bathrooms
during a citywide blackout.
Coincidence isn’t familial.
Proximity isn’t purpose.
and justice isn’t late —
she’s just overworked,
overdressed in ideals,
and underpaid in consequence.
She reads crime like horoscopes —
only when it suits the stars
or the state.
At some nameless crossroad —
unmapped, but carved into you —
you pause.
And it hits you:
truth
isn’t singular.
it’s a spectrum of silences,
traumas, timestamps,
and whose version finds an audience.
And yet you preach it.
Sermons of “truth”
like a shopkeeper selling
shoddy stationery:
pencil morals,
eraser memories,
rulers that don’t measure pain.
You call it principle.
I call it inventory.
A clearance sale
masquerading as gospel.
If your truth’s a compass
and mine’s a sundial in eclipse,
If your justice wears robes
and mine wears wounds,
how far are we
from agreement,
or from war?
Truth doesn’t wear blindfolds.
she squints —
at whoever sells the electricity and the illumination.
And in that squint,
we all fit
just long enough
to call ourselves
right.
No comments:
Post a Comment