Sometimes I dream of a world without lies.
I dream of a world in which the very thought of telling something other than the truth would never cross a person’s mind, because I am tired of meaningless lies used to fuel meaningless hatred, I am tired of empty denial that only ever leads to filling that emptiness with man-made tragedy.
And yet …
And yet I know I can’t dream of such a world, because a world without lies is also a world without imagination, because the ability to tell something other than the truth is tied to the ability to transcend the very thought of what is real.
And I know I can’t live in a world without imagination. It might very well be worse than a world with lies.
And so I hold in one hand the power to tell a lie, and I hold in the other the power to imagine, and I close my eyes and I accept them both – however painful and infuriating that may be.
