A Thing Called Truth

Empty-handed, I turn up empty-handed, when I attempt to dissect my true feeling at this moment. How can I dissect nothing? I ask the question, only to receive an answer filled with silence. I shudder to think how deeply into the bowels of my pysche I may have to dig in order to locate truth. And, will I know it when I’ve found it, this alien thing called truth? And what shall I do, when finally, I find myself face-to-face with this thing called truth? Perhaps I shall pluck it out of myself, perhaps it holds the seed of this restlessness, of this complete absence of tranquility in which I find myself? There seems no way that I can disengage the sharp tines of this immense dullness which presses against my heart. No way except for waiting. Waiting.