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 ostentatiously like a badge: Authenticity. Openness. Tolerance. Love. Respect. They post them, quote them, nod reverently when others say them. And then nobody keeps their word anymore when it simply comes down to 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. Nobody got in touch! So I asked what got in the way. 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 real transgression — and not the broken promise itself. Those who preach openness and shut down at the first honest inquiry never understood the word. Those who speak of love but find no time for the people they love are committing fraud with themselves. And yet, in that same week, five counter-proofs that 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 knowing I was even in the area. And yet he spotted me, exactly at the moment I was walking back along the beach 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 was suddenly sitting 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 that 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 bike 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, continuing to smile, 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 remains worth something, or you don't speak it at all. "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, unsolicited. 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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