Eventually we get around to talking about the point. Eventually.
...after the diversions, after the sex, after the booze and the binges, after the boys of summer. After the fall.
joe. (a true story) It's all a lie, a clever Mambo danced amid the lethal laser beams, between and under them; and a ballet of leaps and pliès over and around them -- but never through. To go right through one of those slivers of light would cut a person in half. Tell the TRUTH!? What, do I tell the story of what really happened to me? That would be the most boring thing on earth -- or the most terrifying, depending on one's perspective. Do I tell instead of the consequences of that story, the sequelae of my life? (As if my life is already over and this is what's left.)
And so the dance -- the lie -- defines the trap even as the dissociate soul ranges broad across the universe (and the bedroom ceiling).
The story is this: I don't lie, I just don't say. Cryptic, hidden. Safe. Let's play pretend, it's comforting. It is like being God. Children are God, or not far from it; they are at the beginning of that little loop that is human life, that comes out from God at its start, swings out away and finally, near its end goes back in again. At the beginning there's a need for a little readjustment, as the soul departs from infinite omnipotence to enter a journey through limited humaness. Some people make the transition well.
Getting honest is the hardest part; it is coming out of hiding, and giving up all the clever hopes and schemes that say going back is possible, promising that life can be undone and re-lived. Truth is the laser which seared clean through you; it cannot be un-burned. The options are simple; do you want to be real, or do you want to pretend to be God?
The true story is real, not pretend.
Eventually.