literature

Lies

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Literature Text

Lies. My whole being is made up of lies. Every aspect of me that others see is lies. Or should they be called acting instead?

Some people tell lies to comfort their friends. Others lie to hide their misdemeanours. There are those who lie to gain some profit from the world. I lie because I'm self centered. The lying sets me up to be someone I am not, a  someone who has things the real me doesn't.

I've lied so much that I find myself unable to distinguish the real me from the made up me. And if I can't, how can anyone else? Perhaps there is no distinction to be had. I've convinced everyone else about my life. With every progressive lie to bolster the previous ones, I'm merely adding another layer of glamour.

This hole that I've dug for myself is so deep, the sky seems like a tiny blue dot from where I stand at the bottom. Around me lie the ladders and ropes that others have extended to me over the years but all I've done is dig even deeper each time trying to convince them that I don't require saving. Eventually each means of escape has been overwhelmed or ditched as they either believe my denials or give up on me.

I wish I could give up on me. Give up trying to pretend to be someone I'm obviously not. Forget about seeming more interesting than I actually am. Stop making things up so that others have to care about the things I say. But I'm too egotistical. Nothing seems to be able to get me to quit trying to build myself up even as I know I'm acting like an idiot. I'll just end up disappointing everyone when they hear how stupid I've been. So, more lies are needed to ensure that they never find out. Simple plan, dumb reason for execution.

An epiphany is needed. Some sort of revelation to me for the reason I'm alive. Because so far as I can tell, I've been put on this earth to act like a hodge-podge of the people I know. Is the real me just a combination of people I know whom I find fascinating and worth imitating? That just seems so fucking sad.

You know what? I am me. And if I'm made up of only lies then that person is still me. Because someone had to start telling the lies, and that someone was and is me. These lies are a part of who I am. And besides, all good lies need to be partial truths in order to be accepted fully. Guess I really am half lies and half real. With no clear lines to be made between the two. Mixture it is then. Accept it, or get out.
I might change.
I might stay the same.
Who am I? Who are you?
Would you still love me if you knew?
Does it matter? You're not coming back after all.
© 2010 - 2024 AceGreatPrank
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