Pseudologia Fantastica.
Pseudo.
PSEUDO.
Where have I heard it before?
oh yes,
Here’s an interesting story.
It was class 5 or 6.
“Amoeba is a pseudopod”.
I got into an accident in class 5.
Cut my calf with a glass.
It was almost in two halves.
I got stitches. 7 or 9.
It is right beneath these jeans.
I often slept to the thought that it was to me
what that scar was to harry.
given to me by one who must not be named.
Because,
I don’t know his name.
Fantastic story no?
Fffantassticc..
Fantasica.
Where have I heard this before?
Here’s an interesting story…

do you know what’s the another name of pseudologia fantastica?
Pathological lying.
That story that I just fed you,
was a lie.
well, not all of it.
I was in class 5 once.
Indeed amoeba is a pseudopod.
and someone might have cut their calf.
And I did get the stitches.
on my forehead. class 2. because I was dumb.

What?
It’s a habit.
Didn’t you know?
That those are difficult to lose.
Habits.
Like how I wake up everyday at 5 and jog for an hour.
50 pushups. 40 crunches.
30 lunges. 20 squats.
It doesn’t show, I know.
I fell sick last summer.

What?
Don’t look at me like that.
I know you believe me.
That’s my superpower.
Lying… is not easy.
Like each piece of a clock,
You have to place facts,
Each tooth of the lies should match with the hollow space of the truth.
That’s how it’s done.
Religion does it.
You believe that, don’t you?

Don’t look into my eyes when I am telling a story.
You will fall for me.
You will not find any missed blinks.
I have been training in it like you have been trained to breathe.
Breath in. Breath out.
Breath in. Breath out.

Here,
Let me tell you a story…

Yesterday,
I got a call at 1500 hours.
My world went dark and the sun was still up.
I went back home at 3:30.
Took a bus.
The ticket was 5 rupees.
The conductor as always refused to give me the ticket.
I went home and slept.
I got a call at 1800 hours.
The cold was seeping in.
Like a spoon in jelly.
Butterflies in my belly.
The sun was down.
So were my hopes.

What’s the point of the story?
Nothing.
It is just a lie, constructed with intricate details.

You see lies,
they are well thought.
Truth can be thrown around like dead fishes on the port.
But lies, they are the horizons you see but never reach and the loch ness monsters that you have heard of but never seen.

Don’t you dare look at me like that.
Don’t feel sorry or disgusted.
We have shared our bed with lies.

Try these pills for a month.
You’ll go from 34 to 32 to 30.
Apply this every morning,
you’ll go from darkest to darker to dark.
Hairfall?
Try this serum.
From lesser to less to many.
Happiness…

I am sorry, I have to.
Happiness would have been just muscles and bones.
Happiness would have been ice-cream-less cones.
Lies are the flesh, the body.
and wow, aren’t we all cannibals!
*inhales*

and the pathological liars?
they have married their demons.
It has become a necessity for them
to weave a story.
They don’t mind being truthful.
But while truth feels like love,
Lies feel like lust.
Tastes like sugar, spice and everything nice.
But it kills. Slowly.
Smells like ammonia.
You adjust to it. Thinking you’ve won.
Only to lose parts of you until you’re all gone.

But sometimes the bullet in your head becomes a part of you.
Sometimes you cannot live without the world that you have created.

Liars will say that they are artists.
Ironically, they are not lying.

Lying…
Feels like a truth.
Until it peels off its mask.
And then it’s ugly.

But so are we.

 

 

 

Featured Image Courtesy: Berlin Artparasites