Two-fisted liar

zara's picture

Remember me?

I used to write.

I used to write, like, A LOT.

I wrote about all kinds of different things. Now I write to stay employed. I write to keep money coming in. I write about one certain topic and I try to forget how I used to write about everything and anything under the sun.

I still get ideas. But I stifle them. I am careful with my words. I watch what I say. I am fenced in. Reined in. Muffled.

I'm going through a phase, I'd like to believe. One that I'll dig myself out of eventually. No one else is going to do it for me but myself. No one is going to inspire me but ME. I refuse to write off the back of the pain that someone else cause me.

No. None of that. No more of that. It just gives them credit. Stocks. Shares. Investments.

They already own enough of me. They've already torn down my building. Scraped the plaster off my insides. Made me bleed from renovation.

Screw 'em, Angus.

Here's what I was pondering today. Why be bothered by someone (someones?) so beneath me? Why allow it to permeate my shell? Why not just bat it off like a bothersome fly, a infestation of stupid?

Because I bother to think and feel and care outside of myself. As I reflect and take responsibility, I become angrier, more bitter. Because I am not fully responsible.

I'm just the only one taking ownership of the piece that I bought into.

And that sucks.



Why am I worrying enough for me, you & her?

Tell her to eat that makeup she slathers on, see if it'll make her pretty on the inside. But just like it fails on her shell, I think we can all guess the outcome to that one.

And you?


I know the truth.

You know the truth.

If it made you feel better to lie about me, fine. If it took the burden off your shoulders, there's my gift to you.

But you KNOW the truth.

And at the end of the day, which might be the end of your lifetime before it fully hits, you're going to have to live with that truth.

Sucks to be you.

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