I’ve written from some exotic places, like the Maldives and Greece, but today I’m writing away on a tour bus of Boston.
This is the first post I’ve made about the lying and telling the truth, and also the first time I shall have a rant about something. See lying is easy, and I say that as a 6’7” tall, dark and handsome astrophysicist. Unlike my career of choice, fibbing is not rocket science…and that this is the second time I have posted this.
Lying is essential to our own survival. It’s a cover for our fears, betrayals, neuroses and selfishness. A way of pretending that we appear better than we act, a way of convincing ourselves of an alternative reality where there are rainbows, and butterflies, and everyone sings and no one ever cries except tears of joy and that happens all the time because everything is so frakking wonderful. And there are unicorns.
Like Neo’s spoon, this is all a lie.
The real world is a horrible place, would you want to tell the truth. Go on, tell a child that “no you can’t grow up to be a fireman/ballerina/president”. Tell them “you will have a boring job like millions, and debt, and pay taxes, and get headaches, being treated like an idiot and get your heartbroken countless times. Your existence will not make an iota of difference to the workings of the universe. You. Are. Insignificant.”
I tell plenty of mistruths each day not to mislead people but to make them feel better, it’s creating a reality that is more bearable and worth living for. In the first episodes of Battlestar Galactica William Adama lied to the remnants of the colonies that he knew where Earth was and they were on the way there. When challenged in private by others that he didn’t know the location he explained that what would you have me tell people, the truth?
It’s why the fantasy industry of movies, books, music and games makes more money than the news. It’s why we pretend we are pop stars in the shower, it’s why dream of being a movie star, it’s why I sit and play RPG’s and read books. For just a short time of space it feels good not to be me and lie to myself.
The real world is a cold place. Never tell the truth, live in the world of lies.
There are unicorns there.
Because I live in this world it is not easy to hoodwink me, I naturally assume that anything being told to me is a mistruth. I’d also like to think I lack that element of naivety that would make me susceptible to a tall story. I’m forever questioning facts I’m told so if I hear a story that sounds too good to be true a citation is needed.
But I didn’t lie about being in Boston.