Even a small flash of insight brings with it a certain satisfaction. There is the metaphor of light, which seems natural, aha!, even if what you see into is only your own darkness, your guilty darkness or just your abysmal darkness - not just the fact that you'll never see the light, but the reality that there isn't any light for you to see. Facts might appear in the light of day, but reality is only glimpsed in a flash, and the flash brings on a certain satisfaction, like a certain smile; something is more present in it, you are more present in it, than not. It's the sense that the truth might show itself, not to you, but in place of you; the truth can only show itself to the truth. If you want to see truth you have to be truth, but the truth is you can't be truth, never were, never will be, and there is a certain satisfaction in this, aha! I got you! So truth doesn't just sit there in the dark, like your mother waiting for someone to turn on the lights, or pop the flash, in order to be seen doing something perfectly staged, it isn't a performance, exacts no response - there's nothing there for the one who looks, truth is the light itself and what is illuminated and what sees. All you know of it is a certain satisfaction - that happiness is closer to truth, is more true, against the odds - that what your mother kept telling you, keeps telling you is untruth: that everything that goes up comes down, and everything that goes down stays down, in the dark, where there's always a place waiting for you.