|
pSyche
|
Do you know what it's like when all the colours on your pallet run together, making that muddy little mess of paint that you really can't use?
That's what's happening.
You start with lie one- a little blot of paint on your nice white board. And then, you lie some more. And now, here is some red next to the black. and some more lies... and before you know it, the spectrum is laid out there on your pallet.
Oh, it's all okay NOW; your hand is still holding the board steady. But...
Watch it!
Walking- which has become a complex movement by now- you stumble and the paints slide towards the right...then to the left...and before you know it you've dropped the pallet and little specks of paint splatter everyone within the room.
Affecting everyone.
Changing them.
Your best friend is blue now.
Your mother is red with fury.
You find once friendly faces are pale, withdrawn, and many have become dark, shutting you out from them completely.
You idiot!
What were you thinking?
And now, what is it? This dreadful cracking and crumbling I hear?
All of you, the statues you so carefully molded to fit others tastes, are breaking, dissolving in to nothingness! And, one by one, as the "friends" you lied to see the pitiful person crouched and snivelling behind that statue, they turn in disgust.
Either way, they always left you.
But the odd thing was, was that lying about the simplest things- your age, where you live, what your name was- made them like you. Sad, really.
No, there is no pity for you. "You lied to us."
Yes.
I tried to make a reality for myself built on falsities. It was ever so nice... To be talked to. To be liked. To be able to say the same old jokes, and suddenly find people laughing at them.
What was it that suddenly made me seem so much better, so much mroe likeable?
"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we first learn to decieve."
|
051110
|
