lying to ourselves

They were tipsy enough that they had forgotten that reality was a standard they were expected to adhere to when they spoke.

She had seen beauty in the lights that she could see through the window, as she flew above her hometown. As she shoved the rose-tinted glasses away, she realized that those lights had always been nothing more than harsh, unforgiving, illumination.

He never mastered the trick of lying to himself. He could tell anyone else whatever they needed to hear, or whatever he wanted them to think, and never feel a hint of guilt. But the instant he tried to convince himself of anything, he could feel his mind straining, a whisper from the edge of his hearing, asking ‘why’.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

sandpaper words

The story has been whipping around us for so long that I cannot see the wind anymore, that I can only vaguely remember how the words felt until their sandpaper texture rubbed my skin raw. 
Read more

an incomplete character portrait

A thin veil lay over the face of the person in the portrait behind their desk. The veil was neither mourning black, or wedding white, but instead a deep blue. The rest of their outfit was a suit of the same blue shade. A single hand was visible, a white-knuckled grip on the chair they stood behind. Although the features were obscured (or perhaps not painted at all), the figure still seemed to be glaring at everyone who entered the shop. “Who’s the woman in the picture?” the boy asked. The woman in the picture was a man. The man in the picture was the king’s advisor, known by the people as ‘The Bastard Queen’, not for being particularly unliked, of illegitimate birth, or any particular femininity, but because of the amount of power over the king he was rumored to have. Other portraits, scattered around the city, showed his face, but Adrian would proudly boast that hers was the only one that showed their mask. The portrait's presence was usually a point of pride for Adrian, as it was...
Read more

amnesia (opening)

you awaken in a room, a bare wooden table stands in the middle of the room, and you each can see three more figures collapsed around you. the walls of the room are draped in tasteless red tapestry, and the table is heaped in backpacks. at the far end of the room you can see a fireplace, unlit, and cleared of soot. curtains cover what you presume to be windows to your right. there is a door to your left, with what appears to be a note tacked to none of you have any idea who you, or any of the other people in the room with you are. The note reads as follows, and is written in a sloping, (trying to be fancy, putting on airs of more) cursive: To A. Weaver, C. Morel, Twilight Stormshadow, and Niel West Heckens, We understand that you might find this situation to be frightening or befuddling. Trust us when we say that this lie to yourselves, to ourselves, is both hopefully temporary, and ultimately for the best. The hope, is that in losing some part of ourselves, you can be free from the fo...
Read more