I find it fair to warn you, before you read any further, that this post is neither particularly comical nor insightful, and to be honest, it is not even all that original. Lacking for anything of merit to put up here for your viewing pleasure, yet desperate to at least pretend I care about updating this blog, I present two old journal entries I managed to dig up. I include them because I found them to be fairly well written, and as an entertaining means of exemplifying the rallying cry of youth: “I know best.”
Nearly three years ago, I wrote the following:
The darkness wanted a whisper, but instead I gave it a voice.
The curtain rises, and I see the actors on their stage, how out of position they all are, how embarrassing it is to watch them miss their cues. I should stand up, show them how it is done, but that is not the nature of deceit.
They forget their lines, but they hide it well. To their credit, they handle improvisation better than expected, but I see through the masquerade. They have the audacity to think they are pioneers, that they are the poster child for all that duplicity entails. I should stand up, show them how little they truly know, but that is not the nature of subtlety.
It is not the arrogance with which they saunter about, parading behind their delusions and their convictions that disappoint me most. Truth be told, I applaud such efforts, for you can never hope to deceive another until you have learned to deceive yourself, and they are utterly enraptured by the fantasies playing out before them. Ultimately, this is for the best, for it is wisest to keep fools distracted; if you engage them mind to mind, wit to wit, you will always lose. I have seen those who fancy themselves grand manipulators humbled by the sheer tenacity of the fool, for the more convoluted the machination, the easier the fool will unravel it. You cannot confuse with metaphors and clever analogies when they read straight through everything you say, taking it all at face value. Such is anathema to the true deceiver, for every deceiver knows that nothing is as it seems; if it was, they would always appear to their victims as they are, the proverbial wolf, rather than what they disguise themselves as, which is the proverbial sheep.
The trouble with lies, however, is that they multiply quickly. The true deceiver knows that one lie is always more convincing than two, but I see their menagerie on stage, and though the backdrops are all wonderfully crafted, they are destined to betray their own ambitions by the sheer complexity of their art. “Keep it simple” is the mantra to lie by.
It is enough to make one wonder if there truly is such a thing as lying for a purpose. Such existential quandaries are better used as weapons of confusion than actual cause for consideration, for nothing sets people unawares quite like challenging their conventions with rhetorical questioning. It is important to remember that the true deceiver does not need to fool the target for long, just long enough. Hide your intent until all semblance of motive has been erased, and you give the target no cause to doubt your sincerity.
That is the difference between me and those impostors on stage. They obscure themselves from the intricate subtleties of the trade, and as a result, leave themselves remarkably transparent to anyone with eyes suspicious enough to see them.
Lies become us all, sooner or later. The key is not to become a “liar,” for a “liar” makes a habit of telling lies, and lies are but a minor tool in a much greater arsenal for the true deceiver. The separation of master and student is defined by not only the understanding of this concept, but also by its application.
All that remains is a final question, but it is the most important question a true deceiver will ever ask of himself: “What am I lying for?”
“True deceiver?” What arrogance led me to write such nonsense? Was I implying that I, myself, was a “true deceiver?”
Looking back, I can envision the circumstances that inspired this little journal entry I locked away, but it is almost humbling to read it and reflect upon it in retrospect. It is not the information itself I find so embarrassing to read as of now, but it is the conviction with which such words were written. I speak as though I actually possess some command of the art, as though I were one of its oldest and truest scions.
I have since met those who most certainly earn the title of “true deceiver,” and after having met them, I cannot believe I ever dared to place myself amidst their ranks. A fool I remain, but it is inspiring to know that I am less the fool now than I was three years ago (even if that margin of improvement is slight).
I was once told that the truth is simple, it is the liars who complicate things. I wonder, then, why lying comes so much more simply than the truth? That, to me, seems a more appropriate question than “what am I lying for.”
Here is something I wrote about a year and a half ago:
“Sorry” is a powerful word. It has the capacity to heal, to forgive, and to forget. It allows us to be absolved of our mistakes so that we might find a way to move beyond the moment of our transgression.
Forgiveness seems so simple. If you wrong someone, you apologize (provided that you find yourself at fault), they forgive you, and you put it behind you. Sounds easy, but what happens when “sorry” is not enough? How do you react when the apology you hear does not promote sincerity? Must forgiveness be granted, simply because it was asked for?
Time often heals what words cannot, and time can certainly forget...
...but can time truly forgive?
I find myself at a dangerous crossroads. Nearly three years have passed since that fateful day, and I cannot help but wonder if the right part of leaving turned out to be wrong...
A person can be broken down into several different personality traits, but at my core, I am a simple man; I am a man of principle. I have one line, ONE line, that you do not cross, and he crossed it. Though time has healed the wound, I still remember, and because I still remember, I cannot forgive.
I want to forgive. I want to forgive him so bad that it literally hurts some nights. Here I stand, nearly five years later, and still the decision weighs heavily upon my conscience. He was one of the closest friends I had ever had; shouldn’t that have counted for something? Shouldn’t I have been able to forgive him?
But what would I be without my integrity? What kind of man would I be if I drew one line, only to forgive anybody who crossed it? He had the audacity to test my conviction; in the end, what choice did I have? I could either a) do the hardest thing I have EVER done in my life, but remain true to who I am, or b) preserve a morally bankrupt friendship by condoning the one type of behavior I made clear I would never allow, and though time has given me cause to question the virtue of my decision, I have never once questioned its integrity.
“Sorry” is a powerful word, but it is not omnipotent. As romantic as it seems, it cannot conquer every betrayal or erase every sleight; some mistakes are meant to endure, destined as they are to remain forever unforgiven. They serve as a permanent reminder of how we once believed we could take something (or someone) for granted, and how much we had to sacrifice in order to learn just how wrong we were...
This was apparently more prophetic than I ever could have realized at the time. That last paragraph rings true, even now. Strange how time can either rob something of its momentum, or grant it additional gravity, but never does it seem to promote a sense of complacency or stagnation. It either lessens or strengthens the intensity.
Thus ends this mummer’s dance, and if you made it this far, you have not only my thanks, but also my adulation; that was no small feat.
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