There are moments where I try to be honest about who I am, why I am such, and what I am not-so-secretly harbouring; old tales, young secrets, infantile fears; present memories, past songs and future desires. Ultimately pull back in a chuckle, because who am I kidding? What will I do with the remnants of honesty? It means also having to believe the bullshit that comes out of my mouth as I’m telling my (real) story. When I was younger, I learnt the hard way that if you didn’t have anything good to say, then you might as well not say it.
Yes, it’s tiring to write stories and half-truths - but it’s also infinitely less tiring than trying to be honest. If I let it be stretched too tightly over paper-thin logic and closely written characters, maybe parts of the truth will seep out gently, gently and eventually soak through, blossoming into a reconciled truth. Eventually. Eventually. The blossoming flower that wilts eventually will look just as good during moments of clarity.
There are versions of my truths that I’m still trying to grapple with: there is a fragment that sounds good in my head, another that is reserved just for you, and another that sounds good to you. But most of all, it’s the one that gets tucked away in a dusty corner that looks and sounds the nastiest - all burnt down to a small, brittle crisp. No one wants to eat that. No one wants to eat that.