The Lies I Tell Myself

I have begun to notice something uncomfortable about myself.

I lie to myself almost every day.

Not the large lies that deceive the world. Mine are quieter.

I tell myself I am too busy when something frightens me.
I call it patience when I am afraid to decide.
I call it acceptance when I have simply given up.
I say something does not matter when, somewhere inside, it hurts deeply.

And perhaps the cleverest lie of all is that I know myself.

For years, I thought truthfulness meant not lying to others. It never occurred to me how easily one can be honest with the whole world and still quietly deceive the person in the mirror.

So lately, I have been wondering:

How does one become truthful to oneself?

Perhaps not by searching harder for the truth.

Perhaps by becoming still enough to notice the little stories we manufacture before truth has a chance to speak.

Because beneath our explanations, excuses, identities and carefully rehearsed versions of ourselves, there is a strange silence.

It does not defend us.
It does not accuse us.
It simply knows.

Maybe that is why silence sometimes makes us uncomfortable.

We think we are sitting alone.

Perhaps we are sitting with the one person
we have spent a lifetime avoiding.

Ourselves.

And perhaps truth begins
the day we finally stop explaining
and listen.

– mahe