When did we unlearn how to be truthful?

When did we unlearn how to be truthful? Help me. I've forgotten the date.... It must have happened sometime, between all the Sunday speeches about values. Everyone wears them prominently like a badge: Authenticity. Openness. Tolerance. Love. Respect. People post them, quote them, nod reverently when others speak them. And then nobody keeps their word anymore when it comes down to the simple matter of getting in touch, as promised!? In recent weeks, nine people have given me a date. Some even a time. An appointment they set themselves, unasked, unprompted — as if they wanted to give me something with it: Reliability. Not one got in touch! So I asked what came up. And got back: "I'm taking that as an accusation now. Not particularly fair of you." Fair. As if remembering one's own word were the actual transgression — and not the broken promise itself. Whoever preaches openness and shuts down at the first honest inquiry never understood the word. Whoever speaks of love and finds no time for the people they love is engaging in label fraud with themselves. And yet, in that same week, five counterexamples I didn't seek out — they just happened!!! A man I met a week ago in the Bulgarian mountains was sitting with his family at a busy beach bar in Greece, among a good 400 people on loungers and under parasols — 500 meters as the crow flies from Frankie's spot, without him knowing I was even nearby. And yet he spotted me, exactly at the moment I was walking along the beach back to Frankie. How likely is that? On the day of his departure, I rode the 14 kilometers to him in 36-degree heat, just to say goodbye properly. Two days before, his youngest son suddenly sat at our table in tears, angry about something that had happened to him. I put my arm around him, held him for three minutes until the sobbing turned into a smile. No words needed for that. No appointment. Just being there, in the moment when it mattered. And twice, independently of each other, on one day, with two men who don't know each other and both happen to be called Dimitris — a bicycle dealer, a baker — the conversation ended at the same point: Peace, love, truthfulness, honesty. Both placed their right hand on their heart as we parted. Without arrangement. Without me having set the topic. Five people who were strangers to me before lived more truthfulness in a few days than nine who have known me for years and gave me their word. That's the real proof: Truthfulness is not a coincidence of proximity. It's a decision you make anew in every moment — even with strangers, even without an appointment, even when it's 36 degrees in the shade and you have to travel 14 kilometers for it. I will continue to honestly say what I see, even if that sometimes comes across as an accusation. Because the alternative — staying silent, keep smiling, accepting it — would be more dishonest than any direct question. And I'm not traveling around the world to unlearn precisely what matters most to me: that a word retains its value, or you don't speak it in the first place. "Life is the sea, you are the lighthouse. Be strong brother and enjoy the sunrise every day." — Stoyan, in the middle of this week, unprompted, unrequested. A lighthouse promises nothing. It stands. Musically accompanied by "The Truth" by Clawfinger — anyone who knows the song knows what this is really about: https://youtu.be/ytFCrjRNi7k?si=7naVLSbOxWbTu79i

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