Wrish

When I was a youth, I was stricken with an overactive imagination, and an equally overactive aural communication mechanism. In short, I was a compulsive liar.

I knew it was wrong, and I decided to stop.

My family moved; kilometers now lay between me and the distant memory of all my ill-deeds, deceits and little white tongued demons of the past. I was clean, and this way I vowed to stay.

Habits die hard; it’s what they say, and certainly, it is truth.

For recent acts have had me dancing elaborate tales of deceptive half-truths, and so the cycle begins again. No longer are they little or white, not cute or defensible, these are the seething webs of horrendous fable that remind me of the days gone, and it hurts.

I am sorry, and I know that I should dissolve their tangled mess into oblivion, yet, I do not. It would cost nothing more than five minutes and a gruesome chunk of my waning dignity; yet I do not.

I enjoy these fibs more than you know, they are how I live without living. Don’t hate me for them.

Gentle, caring and typically empathetic; confidant for many, confider to few.
Driven by greed, fueled by the monetary.
Avoids offences, but really doesn’t care, not entirely compassionate.
Opens doors, refrains from profanity, observes the rituals of others.
Loves the adventure, and longs for the outdoors, sticks and bugs and fire and crap food are all fun.
Pursues goals aggressively, tends to hide enthusiasm with a farcical veil of indifference.
Outrageously independent, never lonely, often alone.
Analytical and operose, maths is a friend and science is a buddy.
Politically unaligned, religiously agnostic; likes to sit on fences.
A vacuous pit for love and emotion, draw me stoic, happy or sad. Stoic now.
Cold and calculating when cornered, it is your deepest insecurity that falls first.
Will do anything, absolutely anything for appreciation.