Lying has a lot to answer for. Maybe, one day, we will get an answer. And if that day comes, we can immediately dismiss the answer for it will no doubt be a filthy fib. Sure, lying has a lot to answer for, but we do not ask for an answer because we owe more to lying than we may ever know.

We may debate what is truly considered a lie and what is merely a decorated truth. We may debate the moral, ethical and spiritual dilemmas arising from speaking that which is not. We may debate the point at which lies cease being compassionate and start being dishonest. We may argue that lying should be eradicated and that chastity belts should hold all lips shut lest our tongues be sullied by a sinful fabrication. And we may one day rid humanity of lying; on that same day we will stop humanity from moving forward, leaving civilisation to turn stale.

The problem with telling lies and hearing lies — even when the lie is clearly heard — is that repetition will leave an imprint; repetition of a lie will see traces of it attach to truth and mingle in memory until eventually, what is believed is merely a dull reflection of the facts.

The beauty of telling lies and hearing lies — even when the lie is clearly heard — is that repetition will leave an imprint; repetition of a lie will see traces of it attach to truth and mingle in memory until eventually, what is believed is more than the facts could ever tell.

What is a story if it is not a lie told to paint across your mind an image of what could never be? A story of forbidden love coming to be, a lie of forbidden love coming to be. A story of overcoming adversity, a lie of overcoming adversity. A story of wonders beyond imagining, a lie of wonders beyond imagining.

Stories that we tell again and again in different ways, in different forms. Repeated. Again and again. Fuck and fuck and fuck. Stories that have no basis in reality, read to us from the moment we can hear. Before we can even speak we are surrounded with repeated stories. The facts of life are permanently imprinted with the fancies of lies, and we believe in that which is not. We believe in forbidden love coming to be, we believe in overcoming adversity and we believe wonders beyond imagining simply lay around the bend.

What is innovation if it is not turning a lie into truth? A story heard or told in ones mind of something which is not; repeated again and again until actuality is a matter of course compared to the certainty of that lie behind the eyes.

Because we can tell stories and lie to ourselves and to others we can dream of more than what is, we can dream of that which is not.

You may have a heartbeat, you may breathe, eat and function, but unless you lie to yourself and convince that which is not, can be, you do not live. Keep your fucking heart to fridge. Iceberg. Throw, remove and destroyed.

Sadness can sometimes be a pleasant emotion to feel — can brings inspiration — makes feel alive. Don’t drown in your sadness, stranger, swim in it. All the positive things just left. The cuddles and the late night conversations. The love. The hope. The connection. What now, stranger? I'm stronger enough.