What an interesting odyssey has taken me. For the voyage of truth in writing, the very essence of poetry set me free long ago. But this interesting trek, this dismal opportunity, this squanderous lament has shaken me to the core. The extent of deception and one’s willingness to believe it both relative and varying for each of us at any or synchronistic a moment, perhaps even for those who think they play from beyond the board. The extent to which one may aim to combat lies and false truths is something one can only decide individually. Some never wake up to truth, some take advantage of that, some ask who is anyone to judge those sleeping or awake? Some ask who is anyone to define truth? For those who ask for truth, perhaps first a definition of truths must be told. For those who ask for truth and find it, they may wish to have never questioned truth to begin with. Now we face many truths. Now we face the chaos of deception and can only be guided by truth through a magnum opus designed to destroy our discernment, faith and will. And yet that truth is partial. If there were any truth to the matter, it’d be to pick your truth and be from it.