When you are born into an illusion, it feels wrong when you first shatter it.
You watch it crumble into a pile of broken glass and wonder
if you have made a mistake by being you. But you have to remember,
it would have been a shame if the illusion had outlived you.
If you hadn’t let it fall until it broke into so many shiny pieces,
you never would have learned how to navigate sharp edges –
to walk barefoot over shards of glass without wincing. You would have had
to hang your head, afraid to look up, afraid to speak, afraid to look in a mirror for fear
of who you might find there.
No, it’s better this way.
It’s better to shatter an illusion than to become one.
It’s better to break it into fragmented pieces, step on the sharp remains
and bleed free from shame
Of who you are,
Who you always would be
Whether or not you ever figured out
The people who made the illusion were made of glass.
What makes me a blahcksheep is that I’m honest. I have a need to tell the truth no matter the consequences. In my experience, it can be harmful to alter the truth. Even a lie of omission could lead to suffering. Life is hard enough without having to search for facts that someone has buried under a lie. But not everyone agrees with me on this issue. A lot of people, it turns out, prefer to select which parts of reality they acknowledge. And to those people, I’m a blahksheep.