toward action

I do not write about you, for if I did, I may know truth.

Even those of us most obsessed with it--elusive truth--may sometimes not want it for a housemate. If you live with something long enough, it demands action.

I occasionally regard truth as a glowing elixir, locked in an aged amulet, and hanging on a chain about my neck. It is a long chain, and a small amulet, and the world you cannot see it when I'm out.

In fact, it's light, and breathable, like fabrics of a certain purpose, and barely do I remember it lies against my skin.

A few words written here and there, perhaps a turning of the screw, a sliding of a key. Someday it shall set truth free.