Lying For Fun
I’ve unfortunately grown up in a place where the truth is not as important as reputation. A reality I never considered to be justifiable in its construction. To be conditioned to learn how to give lies and not love is a deplorable procedure, yet I find myself in the crossroads of lying for fun and upholding good intentions.
The family I had was a family caught in a war of words, and opinions weren’t something that was meant to be listened to, let alone heard. They held no regards to being aligned to the truth — love and hate were juxtaposed with the intention of providing comfort in uncomfortable roots. “It’s a generational problem” they would say, but I still don’t buy it one bit. It will never be an excuse, and the fact that this line of thinking runs in my blood bothers me everyday. Love was treated like a misfit in a place where hate has booked its infinite stay.
Aging with people torn apart by the failure to learn from growing pains, and they settled their scores by damaging each other’s gains. Every fight without a single argument that makes any semblance of sense, every explosive reaction founded on reason far too dense, and the hate only grew at love’s expense. Neither the days of sickness nor seasons of simplicity would curb their enthusiasm for going insane, because screaming and shouting gets the point across in a family with blood that wires us to never calmly explain. From people born from an illusion of mutual love, they turned into byproducts of their parents’ allergies to diplomacy. They developed a strange sense for urgent resiliency, and in their defense it was all they could do to cope with the neglect and lack of organic dependency. You’d think they’d mature and be better after all the incidents of impulsiveness and fury, but alas even the worst parts of themselves germinated within me. I remember all too well how I was taught to tell fabrications I could sell. To be the rope in a tug-of-war that wasn’t my doing, and still they took everything too far.
I didn’t grow up thinking peace was normal, in fact that’s far from the pace I grew up with. The default was picking sides and changing quicker than I could mentally handle, and I wonder if they heard all the promises I made to their oppositions— the ones I made sure I hid. I found silence in a place where noise was something I grew to despise, yet I find myself making decisions built on the lungs they filled with lies. There was no escape from a never-ending loop of deception, no matter how much I tried. I look at those days that felt like centuries with no ceasefire, how all the potentials of a better yesterday have long expired.
I write this with no proof of any of my troubles ever happening, because the denial of my truth was a specialty that was years in the making. I turned into an expert of stage magic, and my tools were words weaved into something entertaining. I’ve built an audience from thin air, where pity was nothing short of a challenge in a silly game of truth-or-dare. I hold no truth in the hands I frantically wave, because the truth is a dream I find to be depraved. I don’t believe a single reality that has been placed in front of me, because I’d rather choose illusions infinitely. No matter how many times I turn the table to angles I find desirable, they’ll celebrate the lies they’ve designed — the ones they made sure stayed infallible. No matter how much I’d rather spill everything from start to finish, the truth is a pitch deck I always fail to sell. Even now, even if they’ve taught me that lies make these illusions endlessly sweeter, I can’t help but wish them hell — no matter how much I’d rather wish them well.
To be kind for the sake of satisfaction, to give a smile as special kind of compensation, to hold hands with warmth when my heart is cold in ten different kinds of fractions — all of it is built on pain, but also on good intentions. I have fractures no one will see, because I’d rather show proof of my healing — the lie I’ve mastered that hasn’t garnered a single question. I have an endless reservoir of bullets in my throat, the ones I’ve swallowed in rapid succession for years, and one day I’ll pull the trigger without blinking, blood covering the skull I’ve stored with fear. One of them being “things do turn out better”, and that’s the truth coated in lies that everyone hears.
Make no mistake, lying is a toxin. It’s an addiction calling your name, an easy escape, a quick fix-in. Maybe one day I’ll find myself changing, and the truth is all I’ll be telling. A solution in the form of emotional rehabilitation, the kind of medication I’ll eventually find myself seeking. But until the high hasn’t worn off, it’s a game I’ll keep playing. The cutthroat reality is magnificent, but at the moment, it’s something I won’t be chasing.
When I’m older, being honest will be the decision worth making. But while I’m still young, lying for fun is a habit I need to be undoing.
