There is a debilitating trait ingrained in me that only accepts the truth and nothing but. Once I see bullshit the switch in my head flips and I see a shade of red. Years of kinship or camaraderie are greatly devalued and become next to worthless in my currency of importance. The thousands of steps taken up the mountain become nothing to the seconds it takes to fall back deeper than the beginning.
The truth is buried deep somewhere in our consciousness and just as deep in the outside world. I can find some footprints but there is no happiness in my life until I find Bigfoot. To simply choose a path and create a meaning is not a sufficient algorithm for my operating system. No results will be found, please try again.
I like the truth because its foundation is solid. You can chip away at it but you will never affect its core. Disingenuous ways of living are spawned by comfortable ideas that are never questioned and are fortified with irrational rationalizations. My passion for realness trumps the comfort that the mind can allow one to have.
It is a horrible way to have to go through life. It would probably be best to deal with my affliction by lowering expectations because hardly anyone or anything in this world seem to be real for very long. But what is true? Perhaps what is true to me is not universally correct. I don’t know. I only know how I feel. My ability to be sold an idea just because it is comfortable is as difficult as selling an expensive pillow to a cheap person.