This is a rather serious blog with no bearings upon any story I do. Just something I wanted to get off my back and have it stare me in the face when I come to this site- a constant reminder for myself to give me pause.
If seriousness isn’t your thing then you shouldn’t pay any attention to this- carry on you wayward son and all that, I’ll have the next chapter of Rorschach in Equestria done with Sunday being my deadline.
For those who care.
I want to make a confession: I am a compulsive liar.
I’m not sure where it began or why I started to lie but as far back as I can remember I’ve always embellished the truth in some way or another, made up stories to make myself more interesting than what I really am. It isn’t a conscious effort, not anymore at least. Over the years it’s just become so easy to lie, and as my lies grow and expand they become entire stories. I truly begin to wonder what the truth was and what the lies I told myself and others were. Sometimes lying was fun, making up stories until they were too fantastic to believe, and other times it was out of confrontation, lying to keep face when being judged or berated.
Nowadays, I’m ashamed to say I’m a very good liar. I can make up an entire story for you on the spot and have you believe every word of it, I know this because I’ve done it so many times before to impress my friends, my family, and strangers. Even when I’ve been caught in a lie it doesn’t seem to bother me anymore, all it takes is more lies to seal the wound my one discovery had created. I’ve had too much practice than I care for and recently I’ve started to change that. For the lies I’ve already told there’s no way I can take them all back but I force myself to tell the truth now, as often as I can and correcting my own attempts at lying. It isn’t as easy as it seems, not for a man who’s spent his entire life building himself on a shaky pyramid of lies and deceit.
Even now, I find myself still telling lies on the small things, details that don’t matter at all yet still I have the need to embellish them. At least my lies don’t harm anyone except myself any more, and it helps now that I have an outlet.
When I write I have control over what I say and do: I make the conscious choice to lie where it is to my advantage and to speak the truth where it is appropriate. And like it or not I’ve only allowed myself the truth in my writing when it did not pertain to the genre of fiction, what I write here on my blog is the truth. I don’t want to lie, even though I have the urge to do so, because it’s just too easy now to hide behind a screen and tell you what I might be, too easy to fall back into that pit of continuous lies. Awkward moments in my life, my instances of being drunk, that time I fell out of a tree, and my love of exaggerating my weird southern/english accent into phonetic words is all fact. How trustworthy my own word can be… well, only you can decide how far to trust the words of a man who sees it fit to lie before the truth has caught up with his mind. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, sometimes I don’t even trust my own mind about what’s the truth and what’s fantasy.
Perhaps the reason I’m a writer is because I’m a very good liar. I can’t say for certain, a writer’s opinion on writing changes on who you ask. Lord Byron once wrote, “And, after all, what is a lie? Tis’ but the truth in Masquerade.” While Ralph Waldo Emerson believed that, “Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society.” I’ve known these two quotes for some time, forgetting and remembering them as time moved on, trying to decide where I stood in my stance upon lying. Was it so bad to lie when the lie is so meaningless that no one would care of its existence, or is even the smallest lie a slippery slow down into a web of deceit? It’s only recently that I’ve realized that both Byron and Emerson are right, that lying is a two sided blade.
I can tell myself that lies are merely the truth in some form of guise and that it was just a convenience to lie, but I cannot hide the fact that it hurts when I’ve realized what lies I’ve told my friends, how undeserving I was of their trust, and how pathetic it is that I can’t even stop myself from lying. What keeps me up at night isn’t the fear of having my lies discovered now, it’s the act of lying that haunts me- that moment where I told the lie sticks in my mind like that one embarrassing moment from high school that makes you cringe even to this day. For the true friends I’ve made over the years, the ones who’ve put up with my antics and randomness as well as my faults, my lies to them bare down on my thoughts more than any worry about finances or academics.
To those I’ve lied to in the past, tricked into believing false lives I lived, I don’t expect your forgiveness and even if you offered it to me, I wouldn’t forgive myself. What I do want to say is that never have I meant to harm anyone with my lies. I never intend to hurt anyone but myself when I lie. Looking back it feel so selfish to think that it was only myself that I was harming when I told a lie, like a child whose scared of punishment and blames the spilled mess on the dog I didn’t seem to realize it was the dog that would get beaten and not me.
I bring this all up because I have to. Writing is the only place I have left where all I can say is the truth, the whole truth, and not the embellished lies that escape me like hot air when I talk. Even then I’m not without fault, I catch myself typing out a lie so many times it scares me. I hope that someday I can change, that I can tell you that you can trust every word I say when I talk to you in person or in instant messaging, but for now... well, take things with a hint of salt as they say.
That’s it, thanks for your time,
Simple facts of truth:
I live in Tennessee
I say mate, 'drop the 'g in 'ing, and y'all all in one go.
I'm pretty sure my family is insane.
I had my first taste of beer when I was 13.
Wow this post was serious, needs more Derpy.