How many times have we asked someone to just tell us the truth regardless of what it might be, and then they tell us the truth and we automatically feel a million times worse. We said we wouldn’t but we do. Or we find out the truth by ourselves, through a series of sleuthing steps (that, let’s face it, with the advent of social media, are all to easy) and fight not only our own new found revelations about a suspicious person, but the urge to confront them. We don’t. And then we do. This is how they become sincere if they were not, and in doing this we realize over time that maybe we preferred the blissful ignorance of that time before we knew the truth. But that’s only because we have forgotten our own intuitions. We have forgotten that little space of insufferable time between blissful ignorance and disappointing clarity in which we actually sensed that something was not as it seemed, but didn’t know the actual details behind what we sensed. In that space of time our own doubts about ourselves would intercede and we weeere left to drift between dynamic awareness of our own sensitive perception and a dubious sensation of insanity. This limbo state of not knowing just why or how or what was pure hell. And now the residue of that emotional destruction makes us feel an artificial nostalgia for a dream state that probably lasted for about two hours at the most before the initial doubts set in about this person who never was as we wanted them to be.