Whispers. That’s what we hear when we watch television news or listen to ourselves reading from the New York Times or Chicago Tribune or skim messages from Facebook or Twitter. These are not proclamations of truth or emphatic pronouncements of fact. They’re rumors and lies given credibility by their medium.
I wonder whether any of the whispers we hear are real. Are they truth spoken softly? Or do they lead down a path of illusion that will never heal?
Are they wishes or wonder? Do they portend the future, or acknowledge the past?
This evening, for I am writing this late Thursday night only a while before the day ends, may be the time to express the rage I feel at not knowing. But what good will it do to express rage? Will that rage engender enlightenment? No, it will only build on itself and mask even the gems of truth I might find in the whispers,
I have a theory. Happiness may be found only by discarding the idea that one will ever know whether the whispers offer glimpses of truth. The other part of the theory is that, even if one knew for a fact the whispers offer glimpses of truth, truth would not bring with it happiness.
Happiness is out there, beyond the whispers.