I am a liar.
I don't know when it started. Consciously, anyways.
When I was single digits I used to write apology letters signed "Dad" to my mom whenever they'd fight. They'd usually be written in crayola marker; I remember one being written in bright orange and it's funny thinking what my logic was to think that, even then, anyone would read a missive in drifting all-lower-case letters with an earnest eye.
I lie to escape discomfort. I used to think that I saved others' feelings when I pulled my punches in conversation. I just didn't want to argue. I didn't want to hurt. I didn't want to have to measure what I thought was the truth against others' out of fear that I was doing the wrong thing.
I yield with silence, I yield with agreement, I yield intellectually. Personally. Path of least resistance. Calm for a moment.
And then I'm an adult. Sort of. I still float around, riding currents, never becoming solid. Waiting for some prime indicator of the direction I'm supposed to go into. A year of art school. Nothing jobs. Buy things just to spend money.
I wait. I watch others. I covet changes; think they're gifts to others. I wait for mine.
"That's it," and the rest of my life materializes.
So many, actually.
So many fears in the vacuum of the me that I wait for. Some that prop each other up, some that blend and move incomplete me like the last dregs in a wine bladder. I seem real for a moment. I smile for a bit.
These lies, this covetous fear became form before I did. And right now I think that it's all I have.