Whether they spoke the truth no one could tell. Blindness covered their tongues. They were neither be found on this side of the red. Some claimed they had left. Others claimed they were still hiding in their basements. Still others claimed they had seen those melt like ice.
Their disappearance, the only certainty, revolved about their head. Drew crisscross lines on their feet. That’s where their skin started to crack. The crack took turns – up their stomach, in through their chests and reached their forehead. All at once, you could see the glowing lava called blood, under their skins. The infinite tears of the body. The final vacuum. The deconstruction of their last hopes.
Identities were nor to be found on this side of their skins.
People have trouble recognizing the truth because it is constantly changing. Water is always wet but the truth is all textures and none, sometimes simultaneous, sometimes sequential. Morning truth and evening truth are seldom on speaking terms. That is how the blindness happens. A voice can erode faster than Lot’s wife in a ghost’s wind.
Ivy, truth is more like a dead soldier, registering his absence in all celebrations.
Smile.
I like to think there were some descendents…or that, viral like, the truth managed to spread before the soldier died?
If truth is dead did falsehood die as well?
The line dividing them had never existed. Couldn’t have if blindness covered their tongue.
Did you seriously believe that falsehood was different from truth?
Smile.
Once you voice the absence of truth, you have implied the presence of its opposite.
This is a very intriguing piece by the way. There is much to be mined here.
Thanks, Ivy.
Keep smiling.