LIAR, LIAR
“A lie gets halfway across the world before the truth has a chance to put its pants on.” - Sir Winston Churchill
A wise man once said that if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes truth. Or, if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes politics.
This, is the very statement that is enough to bring the soft walls of comfort crashing down. What do you mean there’s no reliability in the government? My friend, it is the first rule of propaganda: pretend to believe in what you are trying to convince and you will sell it. Do you think the actors in infomercials are really so consumed with the intricate wiring, technical expenditure and the multiple unbelievable once-in-a-lifetime chance get-it-before-you-realise-you are-wasting-your-money only $299.99 no return features of a ShamWow? Does putting “wise man” in front of a (Nazi Propaganda) quote increase the probability of you respecting it?
I don't know. But what I do know is that people are exceedingly handing me reasons to believe they are actors in infomercials.
Perhaps the truth is still capable of walking around without pants on. Perhaps this is precisely what we fear. Perhaps the problem isn’t the truth not having enough time to get dressed, but at our own resistance to accept and embrace the nudity of it; naked, bare, exposed. One may not be in favour of the truth, or one may get overwhelmed at the prospect of a cold, harsh, pant-less truth. One may simply feel comfortable with sprinting along the path of deceit—the easy way out, than to sluggishly stumble through the dark tunnel of truth.
But what is true? To trust or not to trust, that is the question.
It is easy to succumb to lies—deception is a tricky ordeal. The public mind is a collective consciousness. When the figures in your life believe in something, without even insisting on it even, it will slip into your subconsciousness like slugs under a laundry door. They ooze around slowly and take up space, growing and multiplying and manifesting until slugs are all you know.
Say, how do you know whether I am a highly sophisticated scholar with an abundance of credentials in the matter, or a burn out…with, in fact, no credentials in the matter? Granted, the answer is inevitably more obvious than I anticipated, but the ridiculousness of rigid absolutism, remains.
How do we live in a world knowing, or rather not knowing, that since general knowledge is on the basis of recycling facts from human to human, a great deal of information we hold in our brains could just be unknowingly absurd?
Isn’t everything about life bathed in absurdity? Every morning, I bask in the inconsequentiality of the life I carry out—not in a pitiful way, but as a liberating acceptance.
Oh Sir Winston Churchill, how wise you are! At least we can trust you. How clever you are to teach the world with your intrinsic intellect. But, to trust or not to trust?
I must note this quote dates back to an ancient Chinese proverb alluding to to this very notion. There were many adaptations. But the best one is from a fellow called Mark Twain who uttered the words, “A lie can travel around the world and back again while the truth is lacing up its boots.” Perhaps the truth was crippling with anxiety, hands shaking at the tying of his bootlaces, desperate to run away from himself. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps a truth without pants is simply easier to live with, easier to believe than to be confronted with something we don’t want to hear. Perhaps being fooled is inevitable.
Perhaps the truth is only misunderstood.
About the Creator
Whiskey At Dusk
Guess the whiskey was more important to you in the end, wasn’t it? It was more than the well-being of your friends; more vital than showing up to the places you promised you would and could come to; more critical of a matter than fulfilling your damn responsibilities and getting the press off your back.
By Snarky Lisa3 days ago in Humans
The Line We Were Never Meant to Cross — Part 3
I woke up alone. That should have relieved me. Instead, panic clawed its way up my throat before my eyes were even fully open. The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, too empty, like something essential had been removed. Then I saw it. A note on the kitchen counter. Neat handwriting. His. Don’t move. I’ll be back soon. No explanation. No apology. Just certainty. I sat up slowly, heart pounding. The clock read 6:47 a.m. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Only his weight behind me. His voice low and commanding. The way he held me like escape wasn’t an option. I told myself I was not afraid. That was another lie. I moved anyway. Bare feet on cold tile, I crossed the apartment and checked the door. Locked. From the outside. My breath hitched. I rattled the handle once—softly. Then harder. Nothing. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered. The windows were sealed. The phone on the table beside the couch was not mine. Mine was gone. A chill slid down my spine. This wasn’t passion anymore. This was control. The sound of keys at the door made me spin around. Aarav stepped inside like this was the most normal morning in the world. Fresh clothes. Calm expression. Coffee cup in hand. “You locked me in,” I said, my voice sharper than I felt. He looked at me for a long moment. Studied me. “I kept you safe,” he replied. “From what?” I demanded. “From leaving,” he said simply. The honesty was worse than any excuse. “You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped. “You crossed a line.” He set the coffee down slowly, deliberately, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between us. “I told you,” he said. “If you stayed, it wouldn’t be clean.” Anger flared—but beneath it was something darker. Something I didn’t want to name. “Let me go,” I said. He walked toward me. Not rushed. Not threatening. That was the terrifying part. “You could go,” he said quietly. “If you really wanted to.” I laughed, bitter. “The door was locked.” “And now it’s not.” He stepped aside. The door stood open behind him. My chest tightened. “You think I won’t leave?” I asked. “I think you won’t,” he said. “Because you already tried running once. And you came back.” I hated that he was right. I grabbed my jacket and walked past him anyway, heart racing, every step daring him to stop me. He didn’t. Not until my hand was on the doorframe. “You won’t find what you’re looking for out there,” he said softly. “You already know that.” I froze. Because I did know. I turned back slowly. “This isn’t love,” I said. “This is obsession.” His mouth curved slightly. “Those are often confused.” I should’ve walked out. Instead, I asked, “Why me?” That broke something in him. His control slipped—just for a second. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. “Because you don’t look away from the parts of me everyone else avoids,” he said. “Because you don’t try to fix me. Because you see me—and stay.” “You locked me in,” I whispered. “I wanted to see if you’d still choose me when you felt trapped,” he replied. “That’s twisted.” “Yes,” he agreed. “It is.” Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. “You scare me,” I said finally. He stepped closer. Stopped just short of touching me. “Good,” he murmured. “Fear keeps you honest.” Something in me cracked. “You don’t get to own me,” I said. “I’m not yours to claim.” “No,” he said softly. “You’re not an object.” “Then what am I?” His voice dropped. “You’re my weakness.” That was worse. Days passed like that—tension wrapped around us like a tightening wire. He didn’t touch me unless I reached for him first. Didn’t stop me from leaving. Didn’t raise his voice. But he watched. Always watched. He knew when I was thinking about running. Knew when doubt crept in. He’d speak just enough to pull me back. “You feel it too,” he’d say. “You don’t belong to the safe version of life.” “You’d be bored without me.” And the worst part? He was right. One night, I asked him, “What happens if I leave?” He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally did, his voice was calm. Almost gentle. “Then I’ll let you go,” he said. “And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to replace me in your mind.” My blood went cold. “You don’t mean that.” He smiled faintly. “Try me.” That was the moment I understood. This wasn’t a love story with a happy ending. This was a descent. And I was already too deep to climb out. I didn’t leave. I stepped closer instead. And in his eyes, I saw victory.
By Rosalina Jane4 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Love the quotes cited—and a particularly relevant topic today.