Indiana revealed something on his post yesterday.
Not just about him, but about humanity in general.
And it made me question.
When did the truth become the one thing we could never say??
I go off on my rants and raves constantly.
I know I do, I deal with them.
But it makes me so angry that we live our lives veiled from one another.
Alana tonight said of Birdie and I:
“You guys are so mean to each other.”
And maybe we are.
But we don’t even realize it.
It doesn’t hurt between us.
Because we know who we are.
And we’re honest with each other.
I sure did call her out tonight about her pants.
From a distance they looked Linen.
You can’t wear Linen in February.
Not in Arkansas.
It’s not permitted.
And she calls me out on things, too.
And you know what, I prefer it.
This is a SMALL thing. This is a materialistic, worthless, inane thing. (the pants)
But we do it with everything.
This is just a meager, poor example.
Be honest with me.
Tell me the damn truth.
I may not agree.
I may get angry.
I may be hurt.
But at least I KNOW.
Feelings, thoughts, ideas, beliefs.
I want them all.
From whomever is in my life.
Because knowing, FOR ME, is always better than wondering or guessing.
No matter how painful.
No matter how damaging.
No matter how destructive.
I would rather know.
Because there are worse things than truth:
Don’t let me hope I’m well, if you know I’m sick again.
Don’t let me hope that your interested, if you’re only humoring me.
Don’t let me hope I look good in red, when I look like the broad side of a barn.
Don’t let me hope I can help, when you’re really not listening.
Don’t let me hope I can change, when I will always be who I am.
I would rather have truth.