“Know always that the face that never even is truthful with the self can spread upon the grieving fellow the coat of sugar that reveals only the deception he’s believed in.”– Modern Romanticism
Nothing is as kind as deception. It is what we mistake, of the politician, for compassion. We refuse in the attempt to see past the face of theirs to notice something that would not blossom with truth. Truth has never resided in them, nor from them and for the world. Among the politician who shares his consolation towards grief, comprehend only that deception is the softness he brings. Comprehend only that he is not there to bring you truth of any matter, since through deception, what will ease the grief is only what has been a part of him.
If the politician ever grieves, it is then over their lost humanity. In their mind, it has become a forgotten element, this necessity for being human, so the deception lends itself as a comforting arm to the grieving individual. As in, to place deception in the most shielding warmth, though forgetting about who they helped, since it was never sincere.
No politician is capable of compassion, since the profession allows for a certain contrast between itself and whatever is at their home. Such a contrast to differ the career as a politician, from life among the ordinary. How does a politician perform outside of the succumbing stage act of deception before the multitude of cameras? Is he revealing the truth, at his home? Does he become drunk, strike his kids into being bloodied, thrust his wife with the needed force for the committal of marital rape, to then pass out upon the couch? Such shocking habits would not be caught anywhere on the camera, of one that defends the image of such a politician.
Yet, the most shocking aspects to a person are their truths. It is of things they hide from the world or the entire universe. It allows for endless question upon the “behind the scenes” lifestyles of a politician, as it does for the celebrity. Those we expect to resemble perfection, without flaws, are those politicians whose own grief is their humanity. Is their truth a horror behind the windows, doors and walls of their home? Do they act in ways that would destroy our long-understood comprehensions of them?
As compassion would express a mote of truth, nothing can be of that from the open mouth or caress from fingers offered by the politician. Empathy requires a connection of truth. A lightning-quick access of the heart, as is the signal to empathy’s depiction of another’s pain to ourselves. It is that the unknown aspects of those “behind the scenes” lifestyles to the politician are so unknown, that what we do understand remains as the “truth”, yet varnished.