There’s no end to lies we tell ourselves. And we keep telling it, like a self-created propaganda, inflicted every moment for adjusting our head to reality. The scary reality of people and the world. Mostly, people.
As soon as the ground beneath starts trembling, we start finding solace in our ability to find new pastures of comfort, and tell ourselves that this is better. Better in our heads, of course. That’s the one to be convinced after all.
Our fear of staying of sinking along with the trembles just doesn’t let us stay there. And that is smart. Why risk it? Why fall?
Building a wall around and not letting ourselves be affected. Playing it safe. The cautious ones, are we?
And then there are few. The ones who enjoy the gloom. Immersing themselves to be engulfed by the mourning of failures. Letting themselves fall like it’s a ride leading them somewhere. It leads, of course. Leading them to the depths of the hollow surfaces. Like a free fall with consent signed on it.
Awaiting a rescue to pull them out while they peep out of those tiny holes. Lying there. Waiting. Optimism in the eyes pushing ourselves along with the pulley. Maybe, this time it’ll be better? Lying there, lying to ourselves.
Which one are we?
The ones who run away, or the ones want to get stuck?
Or, our shuffle keeps getting exchanged?
But maybe, these are all what we tell ourselves. Finding closures when there aren’t any; reliving what wasn’t worth it or wasn’t ours from the start itself.
But, what do I know?
Maybe, even this all is a lie, I’m telling myself?