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I conceive the idea that honesty is understanding the meaning of a word. The word never has one definition, instead varying from person to person. And while truth is definite and solid, it is relative. It is relative to the person who speaks it. I feel that the world would be so horrid, so torn if only truth was broadcasted. But I have this perception that we would all be better, we would all be brokenly whole in some twisted way. We would cease to see these hues of gray that were materialized by the liars. We would see it, this life, as a shattering, paining beauty. We would be one hue of black, because we couldn't all be friends, and hold hands on the playground, but we'd know where we stood, and we'd occupy our square of territory. But all at once, we'd be a crisp white, dashing out of where we were stationed because we would conceal nothing. Life would be an hour of recess on the playground and everywhere you stopped and stood you'd leave as soon as you came. We'd push through the lines drawn with chalk and we'd smear them. We'd be so sure of ourselves we'd become lost. We'd be fearlessly exhausted. We'd run then freeze, like greenlight-redlight. And before we knew it, the whistle would blow and we'd end in a totally new formation than we'd began in, a shuffled deck of cards, anticipating being dealt again.