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current favorite: The Blood of Cu Chulainn - by Mychael & Jeff Danna
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"One cannot see one's self through the eyes that are one's own."
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- Henrik |
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"Who will listen when you have nothing more to say?"
I was told that I lie. He may not have meant it the way I thought of it, but as a matter of fact, I do. Lie. I feel like I do for a reason, but really, the reason some may think as simply another fabrication, another strand to the endlessness of modest opportunity; all of it is a lie as far as they are concerned. As a matter of fact, to each and every one of us, the other is a lie. The omega, the opposite: simply is impossible.
We are too contained to know what is possible. We are too experienced at being yourself to be another.
I very well will lie because I know the lie is far better than the truth. What truth? The details are mundane, morbid things. And when something amazing or catastrophic happens, people change. And when people change, they decide it never happened. Nothing happened though.
A self defeating proposition, no? Which is the lie? Which the truth?
The reason why I am so apt to proposing this is because your opinion does not (and can not) concern me. What is, was. What was, is--and not believing it or knowing it is no fault of us both. I want that clear to the arbitrary reader and not those who hear me.
Am I scared to tell the truth? Yes. Because the truth is less likely than the lie. The lie more right, more just than the truth. But not correct.
Who needs history to be accurate when no body can interpret it as history intended?
I lie. I will lie. And do so even if it betrays me. And tell truth when it aids me: but grant, no one will want to hear that story.
Tragedy makes the hero strong. But in turn the hero hates tragedy. Forever they are at war.
But am I the tragedy or the hero?
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