08/06/2025
A Roof for the Homeless Truth
My radar is off. I shut it off first to protect myself. Now, even if I try, it feels like the signal is jammed on purpose. Minds are shut, hearts are petrified, all there is left of humanity is an empty husk. Soulless augmented bodies churning in the machine, rushing like herded cattle to their own demise, proud, ‘woke’, ‘enlightened’, ‘self-sufficient’, ‘independent’, ‘empowered’.
And for those of us whose navigation into this world relied on soul echolocation, living in the zombie apocalypse is, to say the least, disorienting.
You no longer know what you can and cannot say. Truth has not only been domesticated, but it became a transgenic breed with a new identity of its own. A highly adaptive creature that has learned to survive and escape the ‘misinformation, disinformation and malinformation’ criminal charges.
Like many of us, truth is on a spectrum. And like those on a spectrum, is not really part of our society. It may be tolerated, as long as it learns to behave and not disturb the status quo. It may be given awards. It may be tokenised strategically… but only after it accepted its diagnosis. After and only after it accepted to wright itself off and accept the label: ‘divergent’- a very polished, politically correct way of saying ‘not one of us’.
And I feel for this new breed of truth, valiantly fighting both itself and the world it was meant to awaken, caught in an impossible quagmire of masking its true nature to avoid detection and annihilation, and overcome its impostor syndrome.
Tiptoeing through life like a burglar in the night to not awaken the watchdogs, and in the day going through the front door to take its dose of meds and therapy to help it cope with its existential guilt of being different, administered by those it tried to rob.
My radar is off because truth is disoriented. It has done such a good job of masking its true nature that it no longer remembers it. After centuries of oppression and gaslighting, after so much splitting, truth suffers from multiple personality disorder. It became so traumatised that the book (DSM manual) tracing its symptoms had to be periodically updated. Some days, truth is severely depressed, others, when it remembers a little, is bipolar. Most days, truth is crippled with survivor’s guilt anxiety: Is it even worth surviving in this world? What’s the point of having a voice if the world has become deaf? What’s the point of writing its message if no one is reading anymore?
Truth is alone, exhausted, thorn in between the impossible paradox of the choice it must make: give in to survive, and surviving the choice of giving in.
In a world built on human sacrifice, truth had from the beginning an impossible task. Its very existence was predicated on self-sacrifice. And it willingly took its hero’s journey. Until now. Now truth is riddled with self-doubt. Is it even worth anything? Has its existence any meaning at all, especially seeing the pain inflicted on those it touches, blissfully ignorant of its existence.
From the saviour, truth feels now like the villain.
Unable to make that impossible choice, truth is self-medicating itself into oblivion.
Unwelcomed by the world it came to save, truth had become homeless. At least there, in the gutters of what’s left of humanity, it doesn’t need to pretend to be anything else. Down there the expectations are so low that it doesn’t need to hide, because nobody is looking.
Perhaps that’s why I’m attracted to working with the lost cases, to open a ‘supported accommodation’ – to give truth a roof over its head and a second chance at fulfilling its purpose.
Gratiela Rosu - 8 June 2025
