Honesty has a way of finding its path, yet it is a form of divine luck, karma, that shows not only the golden stones, but the potholes too.
My honesty is not a thing of glass, to shatter upon a floor if dropped, but a fine cup that lasts the ages no matter the weather. If you choose to drink from this cup it may be your holy grail, a place to call home, a fortress in times of trouble - yet as with any road to any fine place, it can only be travelled by the brave of heart.
An honest heart can mend, can heal, can take steps it once dreamed were a fantasy woven only in words. For we make this reality, you and I, we make it.
Honesty can hurt, my love, yet at least it is fresh clean floor boards, a solid place upon which to stand.
Even with those honest words, the brain filters what it wants to hear, what the heart can bare without shattering anew. But I guess if we can pare it back to real honesty, putting the troubles of ego aside, then at least there is something real.
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