I lied to my best friends today, best in the sense that, in spite of only knowing them for around half a year, I've grown closer to them than any other people with [whom] I have spent my life. That, and they've been decent enough to listen to and tolerate my story. The funny thing about life stories is that they usually take a lifetime to create, but as the wind blows through my fingers at this moment, I can safely say that my life has taken place only within the past year and a half. This is neither the time nor the medium through which to tell said story, but alluding to it now not only seems relevant, but absolutely necessary. It truly is rare to discover something that has the power to entirely dominate and consume one's life; on occasion an activity or fad may distract for some week's time, but the regression to a "neutral state" is almost always sure to follow. When speaking of myself, however, I have come to understand that at this point in time, I cannot simply displace my situation or replace it with something new. It has come to be ingrained within me to such an extent that one might suggest it remains because I want it or force it to do so. Letting go of the past is a skill in which my self efficacy is essentially nonexistent. Why, then, do I write? Because the paper will always correctly speak my mind and the paper will always listen without judgment, interruption, or doubt.
I have strayed far enough from my introductory phrase to the point where I feel it quite necessary to return for the fear that the idea may be lost if I do not. While deception is not something I profess to practice, particularly when speaking with friends, I cannot help but marvel at my unconscious mind's ability to fabricate an idea that explores, in depth, the concepts of social assumptions. Take, for instance, my lie. Upon feeling an incredible sorrow for an intangible, unexplainable reason, I devise a lie in which, in correlation to pondering friends, made my subsequent behavior not only socially acceptable, but to an extent somewhat stoic.
"A friend died today, someone to whom I was not exceedingly close but who still deserved my friendship and trust. I had known him a very long time."
Little did anyone know, my conscious self included, that my phrasing was in reference to me. Upon realizing what my unconscious had created, I began to question its validity. I had felt sorrow prior to now, and even for a similar reason - no reason at all. But, maybe something had changed, such a subtle something that, consciously, I could not detect it.
Before continuing, I feel it imperative to interject now the idea that having a part of me die may not be a morbid, gothic concept. The past year and a half has been so riddled with valleys and peaks that, inevitably, something was preparing to break. I find it somewhat amusing to feel myself changing simply because my unconscious suggested I had. While others spend this period of their lives consummating friendships and planning for their futures, I find myself attempting to discover who I am. These are the defining period's of one's life, but I find myself trying to define my basics rather than complicated emotions and relationships. Who am I? What do I like? Why am I like this?
A lie fabricated on the spur of a moment, becoming ever more important each day that passes. I stop at times and watch as my mind relives the past year and a half within the matter of minutes, and I cannot help but wonder if this is one of those defining moments. Was the friend who died the person in me who dwells on the thoughts and memories on which I prefer not to dwell? If so, then this may be one funeral at which tea is served, jokes are told, and the only words of parting go something like this:
"You're not welcome back."
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