Truth.
In its basis such a simple notion
And yet in so many cases left reduced to
The definition of some privileged nations.
Thus truth always also about recognition
Recognition that there cannot be one simple definition.
The truth is that there are many truths.
While your truth may not always be mine
Mine will not always be yours.
Our truths diverge
And what is more, they may never account for
The diverse realities lived on this earth.
This is not to be confused for a reason
For us to reduce truth into a singularity,
Into the narrow definition of a white masculinity.
Is the truth not that we are all living,
Okay maybe not as one but
Certainly together as many,
Or am I being, silly my,
Caught up in yet another fantasy?
My fantasy is that one can be at the same time religious and gay,
That one can be white and a Black Lives Matter ally today.
My fantasy is that all men are feminists
Because we are all in the end nothing other than equalists.
What is my truth?
That my fantasy is yet still a fantasy.
That I struggle with my personality not because of its complexity
But because it does not fit in any prefixed category.
My truth is that if everyone would accept the existence of truths,
In the plural, I could live mine undisturbedly.
My truth is that then I could live contradictions
Because they would not contradict anything.
Narrated Realities 