On his back, lying on the bed with my arm reached above him – as if he is trying to touch the ceiling he still can only lie.
He can pretend that the truth is still too far away to grasp, to hold and caress. That he is unable to exclaim to the world, because really, he couldn't explain it if he himself could not take a hold of it.
He estimated a false, grossly inaccurate estimate. He guessed that the truth was as far away from his grasp as the ceiling was from his hand.
And…
He ignored the fact that if he stood on the bed and reached up- without even standing on his tip toes - he would be able to lay his hand against the cold plaster.
(Lies are created by the truth and the desire to avoid it)