I own myself. Everything I say or do can only submit to how bold my unwanted philosophy can push this humble servant to her feet. I owe nothing to another. Duty, loyalty and debt are but mere restraints I blame other for bestowing upon me. I sense nothing towards those who have loved me. It is my choice to return their love or shun the unwanted emotions. Nothing but chemical reactions and guilt can drive this soul to answer behind the veil of unwillingness. I cheat, deceive and keep on pointing fingers to those who I think should suffer for my mistakes.
I have lied; yesterday, today and probably more in the foreseeable future. I will continue to web fantasies and blend them to my colorful portrait until it can no longer be recognizable. Like a shrine, my failing honesty will keep on building; fitting the walls into a fortress that once was ill-conceived. Tell me, is it true that secrets never last when all that is good never comes from what really is? Lie to me now, mark that shallow grave and lay me helpless as I feel it crumble under my defying weight.
I am lying; to myself, to those around me and to any stranger who is unfortunate enough to stumble upon my never-ending twist of fate. To what extent can someone fake it until they can actually feel like they’re going to make it? I see no happy ending to this faded history of mine. Like an inkless letter, my life has nothing that can be recognized as substantial to the human race. Come to think of it, this paper was never destined to be filled with letters or just random shapes. To hell with what’s supposed to be mine, I only own what my alternative-self can create. The truth will never play a part in this campfire horror story that I live.
Sometime back, I remembered the path behind my mental gates. I lied to myself and felt content enough that I actually believed my own woven up beliefs. I tossed friends before when they realized my unrealistic mentality. Like a paper in a burning trash can, any memory of them caught fire and sparkled until it evaporated. I am a free soul and if I wish to live in this fabricated life then so it shall be played.
I am the fibs that cripple my thoughts. This hell may be my demise, but until I feel the heat of its existence I will never know how hard it must be to keep those masks intact so no one can witness me. Nothing is recognizable anymore. Nothing parallels the typical norms and laws that were meant to be followed.
I am no longer in control. My fakeness controls me. I might be moving and breathing but my soul was sold to my whimsies. I can’t even tell if my typing fingers are reliable or just planting more slouches to my unnerving sloped reality.