One begins to think of “Truth” only in the midst of searching, and when the search subsides, even the word loses weight, leaving a space where questions no longer press.
Words lean toward it but never quite arrive, a sentence begins to point, yet by its ending, something has already slipped away.
Pages gather in books, yet when they close, the matter feels unfinished.
Thoughts reach out, but their grasp leaves only an outline, never the shape itself.
Truth moves just beyond expression, near enough to sense, too wide to contain, hovering where language falters, where thought grows quiet, where searching itself comes to rest.
Perhaps it is not found in definition, but in what escapes it, not in the structure of belief, but in the loosening of belief.
Perhaps, in the end, truth is only a feeling.