Am I sincere?



Mutual sincerity is too often heartbreaking. Is my explanation glass to our reality or an image presenting our likenesses, which I am painting “for us” for myself? That is, is my “sincerity” only a self-deceit that manages to succeed? 

Or does it permit the other to exist outside of my own imagination, and capable of surprise?  Does it free me of this ego-made delusion so that it refuses to stifle the other with demands made by my “sincerity?” 

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