depeche mode

had this thing called "policy of truth." and today i discovered "little leaks of truth." they're both ambiguous. there's some strange stuff hidden in the truth. sticky, messy, hard and difficult, convoluted, unappealing things. like hinting at failure. like pressing booboos from our childhood that seem never to have healed. like tying a string around reminders of weakness.

mind you it all makes us human. we just hate being reminded of it.

the thick thighs. the character flaw. the too-loud laugh. the flaming temper. the gayness hiding around the corner. the father who doesn't approve. the mother who was never happy. the little brother we tried stuffing into the dryer - turned on. the lies we told the first girlfriend, boyfriend, lover, mother, best friend.

sometimes the truth hurts. it's just hard to tell who it hurts more. the teller or the told.