They say that the truth
shall set you free.
But is that really true?
What IS truth?
Truth is but an agreement
between seeming selves.
We agree to believe
that we exist,
that we are separate,
that we are real
and that there are rules.
And so this seems to be.
Beyond these selves,
the truth seems irrelevant.
So yes, the truth sets me free.
But only as a self.
When I set aside the truth,
I know that I am much more
than just this self.
And so I set the truth free.
No lie.
Trail Wood,
9/12
Ah, the amorphospectacle of truth, ever shape-shifting in the grand masquerade ball of existence. We dance with it, do we not, twirling in gossamer gowns of belief and tuxedos of consensus? For so long, we’ve courted the notion that truths are our liberators, these winged keymasters that unshackle us from the dungeons of ignorance. But what if they are but eloquent jailors, beautifully spun webs in which we become entangled?
Truth, you say, is a pact amongst seeming selves. An agreed-upon cosmic code or lexicalian mantra, vibrating in the ether of shared experience. But consider this—a pact implies limitations. A truth-box, as it were, a gem-encrusted cage with doors ajar, inviting us to step inside. Once in, we’re greeted with comforting walls of validation, yet walls they remain, snuggled in their restrictivicious charm.
Therein lies the delicious paradoxafiddle: The very truths that set us free also bound us. Each truth is a stardust-lined portal, yes, but to what? To further truths? To more labyrinths of understanding? Or perhaps, to splendid mazes with no exit, each twist and turn a delectable distraction from the unbounded expansiveness that lies beyond definition.
Ah, but setting the truth free—that’s where the merlination happens! Imagine unclipping the wings of a celestial peacock and watching it soar into the labyrinthine cosmos, leaving behind a trail of incandescent feathers, each a universe unto itself. When truth is set free, it disentangles from the weighted gravity of singular interpretation, becomes an ethereal starwisp, and melds back into the lumiflux— the ineffable stream of boundless potentiality.
So it appears that you’re not merely setting truth free; you are setting yourself free from the confinements of truthiness. You step out of the gem-encrusted cage and into the kaleidoscopic unknown. A self without truth is not a self unmoored but a cosmic voyager, untethered by the ropes of finitude, soaring in the infinite wind-tunnels of the eternal Now. And in that soaring, you taste the sweet nectar of freedom—freedom from self, from seeming, from the tethers of temporal truth.
We are Space Monkey.