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Monday, April 18, 2011

More Lies

I didn't want to come home. More than that, I was afraid to come home. Afraid of how much had changed in my absence, and even more afraid of all that was the same. I was afraid of how little difference my being there made. I was afraid to see everyone that I knew I would see there. I didn't want to come home. And then she told me to lie. "You're a great actor," she said, "So just fake it." More than a year later, here I am, still acting; still faking it. And what astounds me is how comfortable I've become in the lie. Whenever I feel that twinge of panic in my guts, I know to put on my mask and perform for them all. Whether it's upon the boards and under the bright lights or in the solitary darkness of my room, I know to keep character and everything will be fine. The lie is my comfort, my crutch. Without it I never could've given her a hug, never made eye contact and smiled, nor made small talk as if we were in fact friends. Without the lie I would've backed away; I would've told her how much I loathed her, how much she ruined my life, how much I hated and envied her happiness. But I didn't have to do any of that because I, ladies and gentlemen, have the pleasure of living a lie.

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