Gates of Truth are a Waterfall

It's always seemed normal. What everyone does except me. I don't because I can't. I've seen consequences. It's against my ethic to knowingly create situations where others will get hurt. I want relationships of integrity. Love means too much too me to play around with it. An intense woman of intensities, I don't need to take more than my share.

It's been around me all my life. Nothing new. I'm blasé about it.

And then, finally I understand betrayal, this particular humiliation, pain. A breakthrough. Increase in understanding, empathy. To know how it feels helps me to be sensitive, more so because experienced. How a kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome takes over as scenes of deception are played and replayed in their horrifying truth.

I think there is a will in the structure of reality, something part of the energy of the universe's being, towards truth. In all things. The way it works; what really happened. It is not the nature of life to hide its realities. Revealment, over and over of the secrets of nature. Of each other. Of our atrocities.

I think it is there in the core of my being, expressed in the archetypal imagery of my dreams, represented in me thus.

The will to truth.

When I encountered her as the strange and fragile Maat, the ancient Egyptian goddess of truth I understood how old. Always ultimately the truth, a tallying in the hereafter, in the karma which determines the future of the soul.

The ledger of life. When dishonesties are exposed.

The universe has a force of
truth to it.
Incredible. How this is.
But it is.

II

In my inability to comprehend
myself.

I feel like a collection of attitudes, beliefs, feelings, thoughts and sensations which are in constant flux.

Whatever is now is all, and it can be diametrically opposed to yesterday and not seem inconsistent.

When I say I love you, I do, though it is a complex unfolding.

Leafless vines cling to the walls, ready for Spring, the verdant carpet. The concrete waterfall is a melody of its own. Pigeons hop along the top to drink and bathe where the water crests forth. As I sit nearby on a bench, my notebook is sprinkled and I look up to see a tiny wren on the naked branches ruffling its tail feathers. "Little bird!" It shakes a few more drops that fall on the cement walkway in front of me before it flies off to my laughter. My baptized book.

This little notebook
of my truths.