We need stories. All of us. Like water, like breath. They help us understand the chaos, or at least pretend we do. We don’t always care if they’re true. We care if they feel good, if they make sense in that quiet part of the mind where reason takes a back seat.
Tell someone that crocodiles live in the sewers of Manhattan and watch their eyes light up. They want it to be true. Not because it makes sense, but because it makes the world more interesting. That’s the real trick, wonder is more comforting than truth, and a good story will always beat a boring fact in a fight.
And this is how lies become beliefs. They settle in, repeat themselves, get passed around like family recipes. Say something often enough and it starts to sound like it belongs. A little fiction here, a soft exaggeration there, soon it feels like memory, even if it never happened.
And it spreads.
I look around and try to see clearly, but the world is loud. Too loud. Everyone’s speaking, no one’s listening. There’s light everywhere, but no warmth. People shout what they think is the truth, louder and louder, as if volume equals meaning. And in the middle of all that noise, sincerity dies quietly in the corner.
We still believe we’re free. That’s the prettiest story of all. We wear our chains like jewellery now, proud, polished, posted online. We build our own cages and decorate them with filters and inspirational quotes. We vote for our fears. We follow voices that don’t care if they’re lying, as long as they keep speaking.
Maybe silence is the only honest thing left. Not the silence of giving up, but the kind that waits, watches, breathes. In a world filled with shouting, silence becomes power. Not because it hides the truth, but because it gives space for it to finally speak.
Some truths whisper. You have to bleed a little to hear them.
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