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Simple truths can make you more lonely, just like simple lies can change your life. For inevitably, all you are or rather all people know you from, are merely the words you speak, the actions you perform and the opinions you inculcate in one’s mind. It’s funny how the human mind finds it hard to believe in irrational truth but obeys blindly to rational lies. Every being is like the floating tip of an iceberg, for 99% of who you are is oblivious to the common eyes. So, you might as well draw your own picture of yourself, as long as it is not hard to believe in, and others would follow blindly. But sometimes one can fall into their own trap, depending on how subtle they have been. For the flagrant lie finds no hiding place under the hard spotlight of plain good sense. Yet, a fiercer light would result in only fogging out what would otherwise have been obvious.

Life is the roulette table that spins around lies more than truths, you place your bets and hope it doesn’t ruin every single part of who you are. It’s a rather difficult idea to follow, but when you come to think about it really, how many times in your life have you wished you had lied? As the truth had done nothing than betray its own reputation. Truth always prevails they say. In a world made of pure hypocrisies, truth is the hermit in the tattered robe; respected by some, followed by few, but ignored by the rest. These words might sound pessimistic, justifying the contrary would be utterly juvenile, yet the world’s most followed beliefs inconsistently revolve around conspiracy theories and forged dogmas. And the clock tics on the wall are here but to bear witness to centuries of human decadence.

Sometimes he found his own troubles so pointless as compared to all the miseries in the world. Where one is crying over a broken heart while somewhere else someone is running on the frayed streets of a bombarded city like a madman with a dead child in his hands. Surely the level of pain and distress is not comparable, but the facts are unalterable. Much too often we overlook others in moments of our own deprivation. The physics of core human interactions defies all rationality and logic. Even the most endowed man would fiercely capitulate in front of others’ pernicious agony, but would wildly expect a helping hand in return. And funnily keep complaining about the unjust nature of all human miseries. Its purely the behavior of the human psyche; everything we see seems more bound to happen to others than to our own self, specially when the anguish is of a very high calibre, just like he would never have imagined himself in this state, not even in his mildest nightmares.

Being nailed to a hospital bed felt like all the oxygen has been sucked from the air. He was once bestowed with all the gratitude of nature, but yet led a life full of plasticine figurines dancing to the tunes of made up stories. Since his early childhood, he was faced with the undeniable truth that life is nothing like fairy tales, where one shall live happily ever after. We all seem to be in the pursuit of happiness, like an adventurer in the quest of a hidden treasure, but in reality we are all but pirates pilling riches from others. The realisation of the crude nature of the human mind was to the 10 year old kid, what kryptonite was to his favorite super hero. The small twig of his existence cracked under the downpour of reality.

He imagined how would it be if he could travel back in time, and meet the child he once was. He tried to weigh the outcome of such an encounter, thinking about the speech he would formulate to the 10-year-old kid he was. Maybe warn himself from impending calamities of life, or sketch a pathway for a more promising future. But was he really prepared for the violent changes that this would imply? The chances that he would have believed in himself are rather slim, yet the expanse of a 10-year-old’s imagination cannot really be quantified in measurable proportions. Would it change anything to prevent someone from doing something, or would the resulting chain of events only end up in accelerating the whole process?

His life was a painted canvas furnishing an immense dark room. A multi dimensional canvas painted with finite colours randomly picked up by reason from an infinite palette, with his emotions as the only guide for each brush stroke.  We all have a canvas to paint. No matter how small, extravagant,  exuberant, simplistic or irrationally alluring. This natural process of self modeling even if not imposed by nature, finds itself deeply rooted in its mechanism.  But if the final masterpiece does not comply to the expected picture, who is to face the finger?