The Mole

Beware of the truth which when given to you makes you placid and indifferent. Lest you want your truth to bore you. Beware of this truth because it is not a gift but something you have collected as a trophy for your previous accomplishments. You stare at your trophy as in a mirror admiring your own image in it. And it gives you pleasure, the pleasure of possession. This is why you decided to encash. Does anyone know of this great pleasure?
But what else? Where do you go with it? Where do you grow with it? Like a permanent mole on your face, it distinguishes you from others; but it also sets you part eventually isolating you. How can you go back now? How could you go back to playing a game, whose victory you have already celebrated with your trophy? Doesn't the muddy water bind you to stagnancy?
Can't live with it, can't live without it: like two strange cosmic lovers who kill their love only by the virtue of being together; but who love each other deeply only when they are apart, when they do not even know each other. Is your truth too a counterfactual, something that you cannot show to anyone, something that does not belong to this world, to this earth? Are you ashamed of your mole?