Truth feels like one of those abstract paintings where everyone sees something different—a face, a landscape, chaos. My grandma used to say life’s truth was in her garden, watching seeds grow into food. To her, that cycle—birth, nurture, death—was absolute. Meanwhile, my best friend, a musician, claims truth only exists in the spaces between notes, in the silence after a song ends. Both perspectives feel equally valid, yet utterly incompatible.
Then there’s me, caught between binge-watching existential anime like 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' and scrolling through TikTok takes on 'meaning.' Maybe truth isn’t a fixed point but whatever keeps you from drowning in the day-to-day. Some days it’s love; other days, it’s just getting to the next episode.