True. False.

Truth.
It is a clever concept that challenges my sanity and sanctity at every step. It is one of those things that the more you think you understand, another level appears. It is an illusion of completeness yet one of those things that make you so empty from the inside, that your heart just floats around in your body, with no destination or purpose.
The truth is often measured by the opinion and compliance of others. It is indeed a relative concept except very few will actually admit that. That's the truth about truth. It's a little funny, if you think about it. How we keep chasing this one word trying to fulfill it down to the last letter, although, none of us really know what it stands for. What good is such a virtue? Seems like such a waste. In the pursuit of verity, we lose ourselves, ever thought of that? How many times have we altered our behavior in order to adjust to what the truth claims?
I think truth is a vestigial virtue. Something that was valid in the days of the great Mahatma Gandhi and his ideal world. In the real world, truth has no place. Not amongst friends, lover, family. No one. Every one is out to protect themselves and keep their names intact. Not willing to get their hands dirty for something as atomic as the truth. Ha!
Now, that is the truth.

Defending the truth is not something one does out of a sense of duty or to allay guilt complexes, but is a reward in itself.

My glasses broke. Again. I am blind for the moment, and as I write, I am sticking my nose to the keyboard, darting my eyes from the monitor screen to the keypad, every 5 seconds.
I wear contact lenses but I was too lazy to wear mine today, and so I'm blind.
It's uncomfortable beyond reason but I like the discomfort, gives me a better understanding of the gift of sight. My doctor says I should get Lasik surgery, I'm in the perfect bandwidth of screwed up vision for that kind of thing. Perfect somewhere.
Ironic how my disability is a perfection in itself. Ha! In some parallel universe it's probably good luck, maybe I would be too.
A few tests proved that I have of what they psychologists say Borderline Personality Disorder and 4 sister disorders. I think the test results made me cry, though I don't quite remember, it could've been a dream.
It makes me happy to know that my disorders are the reason I'm the way I am and not some congenital malfunction. Its independent of anything of what my household is like. That's cool. Makes me different. I like it.
See, it's simple, the little joys of life are all that I need. It doesn't take much to make me smile. A tickle, a stare or if I'm lucky a hug. All it takes.
Simple, Isn't it?
My head hurts now, from all the back and forth and I think my ears are bleeding. For reasons that shall be stated at another time.
This is the best I can do.
All I have is out here. And out there.
An open book, pages are fluttering around waiting to be ripped off the spine of the book.
Take a shot at it, it's an exhilarating feeling.

Go on.

Defeat.

'I am sorry' - she whispers... Extending a pallid corpse-like hand.Bone white fingers seeking, to grasp him.In supplication, to stroke his satiny skin.Perhaps to tousle an ebony curl or two.'I am sorry,' - she repeats.'I have failed you.'

He ignores her as if she were a ghost.She looks like one.A ghost of her former glory.A mockery of that bubbling fount of youth he remembers.He desired her then, both he and she know that.Desired her when she was vibrant, golden-haired.Plump with the jucies of living.

'I am sorry' - she tries again.Her fingers almost manage to bestow their tender caress.But he shies away, flinches from her as if she were Death herself.He does not want her apology.Does not care - it is too late.She failed, failed, failed...

She is beautiful no longer.Beautiful she is, but not to him.He does not see the beauty in her mournful eyes.Those sorrowing windows of earthy brown.Nor does he see it in her feathery tresses.Soft and light as thistledown, a dark chocolate brown.All that is not gold does not glitter for him.Nor is her pallid skin enough to entice.It is the epidermis of a wilted flower.Or a phantom.No pulse can he detect there, nor does he see.The frantic beating of her heart.Like a caged bird trying to flee its cage.And fly to him on silken wings of shadow.

'I am sorry' - she tries one last time.But he is already gone.His back is turned and he strides towards a distant light.The gleam of an opened door waiting to admit him.And swing shut on her gaunt white face.She sighs, sorrows, sobs.Crumples to her scarred white knees.And bows her head - she admits defeat