(fired into the nothingness)
What do you want me to do? You want me to tell you the truth?
Well, here’s the thing, at least as far as I can tell a thing can be. There is no truth.
I’m lying. I’ve been lying this whole time. I’ve been hemming and hawing and feeding the world bullshit – just spewing it out – and I haven’t done it because I’m dark and mysterious. I haven’t done it because I’ve got vulnerability issues – trust me, when there’s a pressing issue, I have no problem making it known. I haven’t done it because of some reason that somebody could come up with and just – I don’t know – understand.
I lie all the time. I lie compulsively and not even to hide my true feelings. I lie to hide the fact that I lack feeling completely.
It’s a complicated issue, but I am the self-aware character, the protagonist with the pen, writing everything I can, tinkering with everyone around me in order to get the script right, making sure that the narrative is fully developed and the plot is adhered to strictly.
That’s what it is. I’m a manipulator. I’m a demon. I’m a god.
“I fear I am a sociopath,” announced the sociopath, knowing full well that it would only throw them off the trail.
I am a sociopath, one bred and not born, one who practiced quite well how to view the world through equanimity and peace, detached from emotion, but unable to free himself from the pleasure of manipulating all those little ants scurrying around his feet.
I am a liar, a rabid, horrible, dreadful, loathsome, disgusting liar. And guess what?
I might be lying right now.
And that’s the thing. I don’t even know anymore.
- A Boy