What I see isn’t real.
It is only a mere projection of the dream.
A reality, altogether, on its own.
It is real enough for me, in my lived experience.
But it isn’t true; it is only a dream.
This lie marks my existence.
It is a truth untold.
One that lies deep within my soul.
If I am honest enough, I whisper it.
It is only an echo of a memory.
One which I cannot tell if it is real, but it is real enough, for me, in my lived experience.
I tell lies to act as confoundations.
They are designed to confuse, to misdirect, to distract.
They are meant only for me, even though you are imbricated after the fact.
But you are just another lie which I use to distance myself from myself.
This is the pathology of the lie.