I’ve been holding space in my life for lies.
They aren’t covert lies. These lies are big blinking lights on a marquee. But they are pretty; the fairy tale fruit whose slick, glossy outside belies the poison beneath.
What no one tells you about lies when you’re young and learning about lies the way a child does, is that the older you get the more you understand why people knowingly bite the apple. You can understand why people prop up the shambles of their lives on lies. Lies are never permanent- everyone feeding themselves a diet of lies knows this deep down- but if you are committed enough to them, they can be strong. They can be temporary support beams; they won’t keep the roof from falling in on you forever, but they will get you through for the time being.
And those are the lies I have been feasting on. Lies of convenience, of quiet. Poison that doesn’t hurt anyone but me, but also keeps my life held together at the seams. It’s killing me, I know, but for the moment lies mean I am not scorching the earth.
In a sick way, lying has been a sort of grace I gifted myself, an impermanent but soothing balm to the burn of the kind of pain that leaves scars. It’s a reprieve from the calamity of the truth, and though it’s can be as uncomfortable as truth is, there is a stillness to a lie that feels like peace. A lie is the most delicate thing on earth; you can’t poke or prod or shake it or move the earth beneath it. It rests on an uneasy precipice, just waiting to fall over and shatter. And so to maintain it, you too have to be still in the lie’s presence.
I know why I’ve chosen as I have. And frankly, I’m not sorry for it.
But I see myself picking at the seams where lies are the silver thread stitching my life together. It’s a roulette game I play, but the gun is aimed at everyone. One string is going to be The String.
And everything is going to fall apart.