Book

Lies flow from my mouth with ease, like a waterfall, seemingly without end. It seems so much easier to lie than it is to be truthful. When I speak to someone, I careful craft a character, a new mask if you will, to wear whenever this person is around. It is like I am some sort of sick writer, creating characters that all appeal to different audiences. I create so many facades, it is easy for me to lose who I truly am. Who am I? How am I? Ask different people, and I guarantee they will all give a different answer. I don't know how to be real, how to be honest, how not to lie. I know it's horrible, but I've gotten good at lying, good at being consistent with my character. I carefully shape myself into someone that the person I am currently speaking to, loves. And when I speak to them, I become that character, I embody them once again. But what character am I to myself? Can I not craft a person whom I love myself?But I cannot lie to myself, cannot tell myself I am a certain way, when I certainly am not. But these characters I become, become so real, that I even at times feel as if I am the character I crafted. I am merely a book, but everyone reads a different story.