I lie. A lot. And I mean, like, a LOT! To whom? No, it’s not an endless list (don’t search your name, this isn’t a confession.) Most people I encounter, will not fall prey to my dishonesty. Most people get the unabridged (too damn much information), over the top, honest version of me (much to their sometime discontent).
I am the sole recipient of my lies.
I am held captive by the deception I serve myself, on a daily freaking moment to moment basis.
To preserve myself, like a pickled ancho-chili: From my own verbal and emotional sword. From my own perceived deficiencies.
It’s safe, I suppose.
What was the question?
People rarely witness my inner torment in full effect. Sure, they assess my words. Observe. Pass judgment, a time or two. Supply an endless list of solutions. Insist they know me, based on the words that creep out of my lips, from time to time, quite accidentally, actually.
Truth be told, if I have yet to discover the difference between the truths and lies I comfort myself with, why then, would any one person be so bold as to convince themselves that they are the ultimate decoder of my speak? When, after decades, I still fail to be fluent in my own tongue?
The relentless battle between my tongue, my heart, my soul, my song, and the ‘me oh my’.
If only I could control the tone. The reader.
For now, I am but comfortably disconnected.
Hunting for accidental signs
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