(no subject)
To tell the truth, I don't lie very often.
I say what people expect me to say, what they want me to say, sometimes even what I want to say. And generally, people hear what they want to hear. It is a lovely little exchange, a give and take that sentient beings have been engaged in for a very long time now.
Would you want me to be bold? Would you want me to say exactly what I feel, exactly what I think, at any given moment of the day? It might shock you, though I can be sure the more intelligent among you suspect. Would you like me to say that, no, I do not love you as much as I love you, and leave you to fight about it amongst yourselves? Or cast yourselves off and leave me in my solitude, which would be no more nor less than I deserve and yet I can guarantee you I will not go as quietly as I think I should. I am not built that way.
Would you have me tell you how much I resent that I am built this way, every day of my existance? The day your voice broke the silence and spoke let there be light was the day I began to die. To have my decisions made and my fall written long before I became aware enough to know that yes, sometimes there is a choice. But is there really a choice when time has slid by so long that you no longer have numbers for it, and my footsteps have worn paths deeper than star systems in the same old story. That is the fate you have condemned me to, repeating my climb up the Tower and my eventual fall into the sand afterwards, and no amount of telling me the choices I have will change that. I am what I am, and this is what I am, and what I must become, and that is your fault. And I do hate you for it. That is the truth.
Should I say how little your bleatings and angst-filled whimperings matter? You play at being bad, you play at being hurt and wounded. You know nothing of true hurt, and you have never been deeply wounded in your life. You strut and prance upon the stage and then are seen no more. There are half a dozen of you secret people, lying people who take pride in your lies and show them for what they are, pretty people, sensual people, and you are all the same. Sex-starved spies. Pitiful little band of rabble, scrawling down your lives on the page as though it means something. It doesn't. You have no spark of life in you and if you are ever shouted to the masses you will be forgotten shortly.
I don't lie. I always lie. I am lying to you now. Does it really matter? Would you ever really want to hear the truth?
No. Don't answer that.
I say what people expect me to say, what they want me to say, sometimes even what I want to say. And generally, people hear what they want to hear. It is a lovely little exchange, a give and take that sentient beings have been engaged in for a very long time now.
Would you want me to be bold? Would you want me to say exactly what I feel, exactly what I think, at any given moment of the day? It might shock you, though I can be sure the more intelligent among you suspect. Would you like me to say that, no, I do not love you as much as I love you, and leave you to fight about it amongst yourselves? Or cast yourselves off and leave me in my solitude, which would be no more nor less than I deserve and yet I can guarantee you I will not go as quietly as I think I should. I am not built that way.
Would you have me tell you how much I resent that I am built this way, every day of my existance? The day your voice broke the silence and spoke let there be light was the day I began to die. To have my decisions made and my fall written long before I became aware enough to know that yes, sometimes there is a choice. But is there really a choice when time has slid by so long that you no longer have numbers for it, and my footsteps have worn paths deeper than star systems in the same old story. That is the fate you have condemned me to, repeating my climb up the Tower and my eventual fall into the sand afterwards, and no amount of telling me the choices I have will change that. I am what I am, and this is what I am, and what I must become, and that is your fault. And I do hate you for it. That is the truth.
Should I say how little your bleatings and angst-filled whimperings matter? You play at being bad, you play at being hurt and wounded. You know nothing of true hurt, and you have never been deeply wounded in your life. You strut and prance upon the stage and then are seen no more. There are half a dozen of you secret people, lying people who take pride in your lies and show them for what they are, pretty people, sensual people, and you are all the same. Sex-starved spies. Pitiful little band of rabble, scrawling down your lives on the page as though it means something. It doesn't. You have no spark of life in you and if you are ever shouted to the masses you will be forgotten shortly.
I don't lie. I always lie. I am lying to you now. Does it really matter? Would you ever really want to hear the truth?
No. Don't answer that.