Confessions of a pathological liar

I’ve got an authentic shit to share today. Na, not poem, property or food. Just some semi-random thoughts on a consistent behavior. The thing is I lie a lot. It’s something I’m not very proud of; nor is it one of things I can erase with a delete button. Excuse me for being poetic here: Every morning, when the mirror peeks into me, self-pity engulfs my throat for stammering while I’m shamelessly hiding behind the phalanx of a fake vocabulary. On one hand, I die during such reckless instances. On the other hand, I can live with it. Nobody expects truth anyway, specifically when you’re being cheeky with words. No one’s interested in knowing who you really are or where you come from or where you want to go or what you want. All they wish for is laughter and entertainment. They don’t know anything unless you thoroughly care to share. And when you do so, you give a piece of you away. As if your existence had a price to pay to time. But if you’re smart enough and understand the preciousness of a word, you’ll ensure a better bargain. In simpler terms, you’ll lie. Lying is an art form, they say. Well, trust me, they are lying. In reality, it’s far from that. Lies are cute but the problem is they don’t survive long. That’s how it is. They are blessed with a very low life expectancy and a very high infant mortality. Having stated that, they do make you feel powerful. At least for some fleeting moments. For example, imagine yourself spouting garbage out of your mouth and your tongue wagging like a dog’s tail—producing infinite sound and thus, music of its own—and people grasping stuff which amounts to cipher. But who can help them? Or you?

By the way, I’m just lying.