Tuesday, 7 February 2012


I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you. - Friedrich Nietzsche

Lying is withholding. It's shirking the reality, obscuring it, keeping even the tiniest of personal minutiae concealed. And, at which point you finally admit the lie, you concede unhappiness. In a situation, in your fellow man, the third party. For the most part, in yourself. 

Some kind of major unhappiness created the lie, caused you to lie. Fed that lie love and grew that lie strength. Housed that lie and bathed that lie, groomed it and pruned it, and fostered it and cherished it.

And then the reality sets in. You not only lived with that lie, nestled comfortably alongside it, but you lived that lie unequivocally. You embodied it, imbued it, became it, took ownership of it. Invested time unto it. You breathed into this lie a spirit. The fact that you dressed up your lie and gave it a name and carried it with you on outings one-and-twenty means you perpetuated this great vilification.

What's more, it means I will never again know whether you are telling a lie or a truth. Or whether you in fact know which is which of your own self. Wicked is the web you have woven.

Sometimes darkness is the truth, and the only thing to set you free is light. Sometimes, though, light cannot break for the fury of the lingering storm, the twisted folly of its keeper.