I have and continue to make a living on lying.
I lie so often, that I wonder sometimes what is true and what is not true. How much do I believe now to be true is just the product of necessary lies, adjustments of the truth, thoughts put out into the wild? Where does the truth end and the lies begin? It has blurred over the ninety years. So near a century. Nearer to that then I would ever be towards my life. I float farther than that now, night after night. Month after month. Year after year.
I have come to grips with the fact that I am a liar.
It has made me appreciate the little kernels of truth that I find. Little lakes in the wilderness.
I suppose, truth is what one makes of it. The truth is in the blood. Maybe that's the only truth left, anymore. The only truth a person can count on.
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