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There are moments in life when the truth arrives like a hard beam of light: uninvited, fluorescent, and too bright for the eyes. Before it appears, the world feels softer. Shadows blur the edges of things. Possibility stretches itself into every corner, and the unknown becomes a kind of shelter.

In that half-darkness, the heart can imagine freely. It paints generous outlines, fills the gaps with colour, invents futures that are kinder than the present. The mind becomes an architect of soft illusions, and these gentle constructions feel almost real: warm enough to rest inside.

But clarity shatters that architecture.

When the facts finally stand up in full daylight, the imagined world collapses in silence. What hurts is not just the truth itself, but the disappearance of the space where hope used to live. The disappointment is double-edged: the loss of what is, and the loss of what could never be.

And here is the paradox we rarely speak about:
truth is not always helpful.
We glorify it as if every revelation is a liberation, as if every fact is a friend. But some truths arrive too early, or too sharply. They do not heal; they simply expose. They take away the soft privacy of our dreams and replace them with absolutes we didn’t ask for.

There are facts we would rather never know, facts that change nothing in the external world yet rearrange everything inside us. They don’t offer closure, or clarity, or wisdom. They only take away the comforting ambiguity that once allowed us to imagine a gentler story.

It is a strange grief, mourning a narrative that never happened, and mourning the innocence that made it possible.

And yet, hidden beneath the ache, there is something honest and unadorned: the quiet recognition that while truth can illuminate, it can also wound. It can free us, but it can also disarm us.

The fantasy dissolves.
The harsh light settles.
And somehow, the heart learns to live with both the truths we asked for and the truths we wish had remained in the dark.
Yet the capacity to dream does not vanish.
It simply waits for a place where truth and longing can exist side by side, without destroying each other.