Most communication today is what I would call marketing-coded; there is always an intention to fit in, to convince, to persuade, to sell, to belong. It is not honest. Every conversation, every social media post, every damn interaction is a carefully crafted performance. We are all walking billboards, constantly trying to sell ourselves, our ideas, our excuses, our agendas. I see many creators today — in fact, most of them — who start by being themselves but at the smallest hint of recognition or validation from the market, start talking about things that appease their audience.

They start out genuine, but the moment that first taste of recognition hits, it's like watching a switch flip. Suddenly, everything's polished, curated, designed to appeal to the market.

Society is an endless sea of thinly-veiled sales pitches. It's lonely. It's masks interacting with masks. When was the last time you had a conversation where you felt like you were seeing the real human?

And I don't mean merely turning speech from marketing-coded to therapy-coded.

I mean real, raw, messy honesty. Words that are tasteless, instinctual, primal. The kind that make you uncomfortable and deeply relieved at the same time.

Can we all just be fucking real for a minute?

But that probably wouldn't play well for our social image, would it?

Where logic sells, we lead with logic and strong arguments.

Where emotion sells, we lead with rhetoric.

Where taste sells, we become premium mediocre; bourgeois.

With humans, it is usually the case that unless a calamity struck them, you would never, ever, get to see the real person.

Most of us haven't met our parents. Even our best friends.

Our lives are safe. Coddled. Convenient.

Convenience doesn't create sages.

Convenience doesn't make a man wise.

Only deep, visceral discontentment can do it.

So, when you talk to a person who does not communicate that way, it can be a real shock to the system. When you meet such a person — someone who communicates with raw, unfiltered honesty — a war begins inside you. Your psyche splits in two, each part pulling you in opposite directions.

One part of you rebels vehemently.

It's the part that's invested in maintaining your social image, your carefully constructed persona. This part screams in protest, urging you to run, to shy away from this brutally honest individual. It's terrified of the threat they pose to the very foundations your identity and belief-systems rest upon.

And then there's a deeper, more primal part of your being.

The honest part that you've buried under layers of social conditioning and self-preservation. This part recognizes the truth in front of you. It's drawn to the authenticity like a moth to a flame, longing for the freedom it reveals.

And so you find yourself caught in a paradox.

Repelled yet attracted.

Terrified yet exhilarated.

It's a love-hate relationship of the most intense kind.

You love the person for their courage, for showing you a glimpse of what true authenticity looks like. You love them for the mirror they hold up, reflecting back the parts of yourself you've hidden away.

But you hate them too. You hate them for making you question everything. For making you feel exposed and vulnerable. For reminding you of the exhausting performance you maintain day after day.

And to go back to your ordinary life, as if nothing has changed... it's not really a choice, is it?

That's the thing about truth - real, raw, undeniable truth. It doesn't give you the luxury of choice. Once you've seen it, you can't unsee it.

Truth is that which leaves no choice.

When you encounter someone truly authentic, truly honest, you aren't deciding whether to embrace authenticity or retreat into your comfortable lies.

No, the game's already changed the moment that seed of truth is planted.

Sure, you might try to slip the mask back on. You might desperately cling to the lies you've wrapped yourself in for so long.

But it's different now.

The seed is there, taking root, creating a constant, nagging conflict where before there was only blissful ignorance.

It's like they've made the patient — you — realize your sickness. Before, you were living in a happy delusion, unaware of the disease. Now? Now you know. And that knowledge changes everything, whether you want it to or not.

A part of you might long for the simplicity of the lie, the comfort of the mask. But you can't go back, not really. The truth keeps whispering, keeps gnawing at you.

You are stuck between worlds. You can't fully embrace the lie anymore, but you're terrified of fully embracing the truth. So you exist in this liminal space, this uncomfortable in-between, constantly aware of the discord between your authentic self and the persona you present.

And the person who sparked this becomes a walking reminder of this internal conflict. That's why the relationship is so complicated, so love-hate. They've fundamentally altered your reality, for better or worse.

Once truth is registered, it's no longer a matter of choice. It's inevitable.

Once the truth takes hold, it doesn't let go. It demands to be acknowledged, even if you're not ready to fully embrace it.

There's no going back to the happy delusion. The patient knows they're sick now. The only way is forward. But damn if it isn't a difficult, messy path. The pull of social acceptance is strong, the fear of judgment, real.

But once you've glimpsed the possibility of true authenticity, can you ever be satisfied with the performance again?