The Lies I Lie

Everyone lies. Even people of shining honor and purity do, if not to others, then to themselves. This is the worst sort of lie. The funniest thing about these untruths that we scatter about ourselves is that we can never remember what they are. If the subject was important enough to lie about, shouldn’t we be able to remember what it is we said? More often than not though, this is very difficult. I cannot remember having lied to others, although I am very sure that I have because everyone does.
There are many different realms falsehood. To stretch the truth in order to make someone feel better is not a bad form of it - the white lie is sometimes the best. To mislead so as to render oneself in a better light is simply vain and foolish. To lie until the real world begins to fall apart and stitch itself in entirely new patterns is to be a writer. To make believe is to be a child, no matter your age. The greatest defining factor over the type of liar you are is your motive for committing the crime. If there is no rationale, then there really should never have been a deception.
What kind of liar am I? The hurtful kind - the kind that lies to themselves through, around, and over teeth. I tell myself all sorts of things. I say that I am ugly, stupid, weak. I tell my mind that it is worthless, foolish, naïve, and conceited. I tell myself the worst, painting a portrait of an unskilled, thoughtless monster. I don’t mean to, but every doubt or fear that I have speaks to me with my own voice. If I believe it when I tell myself these things, is it still a lie? For I do believe firmly, until the person that I truly am emerges to stop the massacre. I know I am superlative in nothing, but I know these to be untruths as well and in no way can I justify telling myself these things. Few can. I love who I am, but I fall into my own web of lies often and turn to hate.
So I know that it is true when I say that lies can be a form of entrapment or of escape. It just depends on how they are used.