“If something inside of you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act – truth is always subversive.”
Truth never comes knocking politely.
It doesn’t ring the doorbell and ask, “Excuse me, is this a good time?”
Truth enters barefoot, with dirty soles and an unbuttoned coat. Sometimes it smells like fear, sometimes like old memories. It’s always inappropriate.
And that’s why people hate it.
People don’t want truth. They want a facade painted in the right colors. They want you to look at them without really seeing them. They want you to hear them without truly listening. They want you to tell them they’re good, that everything is fine, that nothing shows.
But everything shows.
Lies seep through the skin.
At first, very subtly – a tightening of the lips, a blink too soon.
Then bolder – a flash in the pupil, a strange tone, an unnatural pause.
And finally – the horns.
Yes, those horns. Soft, invisible growths that no one sees except those who still remember what it means to believe. The horns appear on the forehead of anyone who decides that facade is more important than essence. That approval is worth more than dignity. That it’s easier to say “like me” than “this is who I am.”
The horns are not a myth. They are a mark.
On every silence kept.
On every swallowed “enough.”
On every twisted “no problem” when there is.
On every “I love you” said without conviction.
On every “I’m not hurt” when you bleed inside.
They accumulate. They grow.
And then a person walks with them, unaware why their head feels heavy.
Truth, no matter how much it hurts, does not weigh you down.
It is light as a sharp inhale.
Like a slap that brings you back to presence. Like the “no” finally spoken after years of “maybe.” Like undressing after a whole day spent in someone else’s skin.
There are people afraid of this truth. They call it toxic, preachy, rude.
But what scares them is not the tone. It’s the fact that someone sees them.
Truth is uncomfortable because it strips not only you but also the other.
It shows them they can no longer hide.
That their horns are visible.
That the comfort of lies is gone.
That someone knows now.
This is true intimacy – not bodies, but the truth between them.
Not whether they touch, but whether they can stand each other when everything falls away: the facades, the smiles, the control.
Truth is at its sexiest when it hurts.
And no, it’s not for everyone.
But for those who can bear it – it is everything.