“Should I lie”, I wondered. “Would that be the best way out?” “Should I lie and then lie to myself about having lied? Would that be the best way around it?” Then of course it struck me that I might already have done so. How would I know? I might already have lied to myself, and then lied to myself again about having done so. I might already be living a lie, without knowing it.
I probably am, knowing me. It’s the kind of thing that I would do. Telling a lie, living a lie. Living the lie that I’m telling. Telling the lie that I’m living. So it’s not really a matter of ‘should I lie in order to get out of a tricky situation’ so much as it’s a matter of ‘should I lie again?’ It’s not a matter of should I lie or tell the truth so much as ‘Should I stick with the old lie or is it time to invent a new one?’ Is there more integrity, I wonder, in sticking to the old lie, the tried and trusted lie, rather than forgetting about it in favour of a new one? Does sticking to the old lie show strength of character? Relatively speaking, I mean. Obviously it doesn’t in any sort of absolute sense. Is this a consideration that should inform my decision?
And then I think, “No”. No to both of the above. A lie is a lie no matter which one I choose to stick to. There’s zero integrity involved whatever way I choose to work it. How could I kid myself otherwise? How could I possibly imagine that I could derive some sort of moral guiding principle from all of this mess? It’s all just lies. Lies, lies, lies. Lie upon lie upon lie. A morass of lies. A shoreless ocean of lies. I’m lying about my lies. I’m telling myself lies about my lies in order to supposedly deal with my out-of-control lying a bit more responsibly!
I’m also lying if I allow myself to think that I’m actually capable of making any so-called ‘decisions’. The only thing informing my decisions is the over-riding need to lie my way out of whatever mess I’ve got myself into as result of all my lying. That pretty much means that there is no such thing as ‘decisions’, no such thing as deciding, no such thing as genuinely volitional behaviour. I’ve got no choices left at this stage. I get an itch to lie and so I do. I obey the itch. Then I lie again to cover up the first lie, and that’s another itch. It’s all just itches. I’m a walking mass of itches and it’s got so I don’t know where to start scratching first. Even my itches have itches.
I’ve backed myself into a corner. I’ve dug myself into a deep, deep hole and I can’t stop digging. My mind’s on over-drive and everything I think is a lie. Frantic lies; desperate, pointless lies. It’s all I’ve got to go on though. It’s all I’ve got left to me. I’m a one trick pony at this stage. All I know how to do is lie and it’s not even me doing it any more, as I’ve just said. The itch is the master not me. The lies are the master. The bloody lies are telling themselves – I’m pretty much redundant at this stage.
The lies are chasing themselves around in circles, like a sand-storm in some long-forgotten desert. Like a dust-devil in an empty street in a godforsaken back-water town out there in the boondocks somewhere…