People talk. People care. They want to be in on everything or want to know nothing about it at all. We're all
guilty. I'm guilty. We say half of the story. We tell what we want to tell, and leave the rest up to inevitable imagination. Even if we tell it all, we don't. It's almost impossible.
Every story can be a good story, even if it's sad. Sometimes it's good because it's sad. Every time you make and break ties with someone, there's a story there, and that story has at least three sides, depending upon whose knees you stare at on the floor as they tell you; it edges in and in short breaths. The minor inhale just beforehand can sometimes tell you you're going to get some of the dirt, the juicy poison.
Well, I wanted to wait a while before I told you this...
I figured you'd want to know...
Well, that's just my opinion...
Inside your head, the pieces are snapping together in an almost audible speed. Walls crumble, fences get erected. Judgments made and passed and passed over, underfoot. I hear your side, I tell you mine. Together we gel some collective belief and we part company, my arm long in the doorway as you leave, keys jingling in your hand, and even then I wonder if we have really heard ourselves, if we have really found the truth.
The truth is this: there is no truth. No truth in such matters that can be found, anyway. I believe that truth exists, but not between mortals in matters of the heart. It is hard to accept it, to know that not everything can be said that wants or needs to be. So sometimes, you will say it to yourself, in the car or around the house, venting and ranting to that invisible person you once longed to tell off in person, or the person you wished had felt more, done more, been more when they were near. Or that maybe you had done a lot less.