These are the weeds in my cerebral garden.
I play dumb too often. I act surprised when I’m not. Pretend I don’t see or didn’t hear when I really did, and crystal fucking clear. I pretend to be clueless when I know all too damn well. I act forgetful when I’m just lazy or spiteful.
I ask a question I know the answer to in order to establish verbal contact with someone in order to better ascertain how they feel or, if I already know how they feel, in order to more effectively manipulate it, usually in order to either:
a, make them feel less angry or depressed in general;
b, try to make them like me more, tweak their feelings about me, or try to reverse any small-to-large emotional or social damage I’ve recently done.
I find myself saying or doing things not for doing them or obtaining the results of doing them, but for the secondary effects — having someone perceive me in a given way, for instance — as if the end ever justified the deceitful means.
I censor my own advertisements. I also use them to spread propaganda, disseminate disinformation, create diversion, draw attention. That’s all the persona really is, an advertisement for the soul allegedly locked there behind the billboard. A masque promoting what allegedly resides behind it but in truth it is — yes, sometimes revealing — but oftentimes concealing, then even revealing yet concealing (like a sports bra) and sometimes just misleading (like a push-up bra).
“You can tell the truth and walk away in a way you can’t when you tell a lie. Truth grows on its own, bears its own fruit, and needs only be picked,” so says the lame Zen monk in my head. “Lies need tending. What could be so worth the investment?”
Ever feel like you do something, and then invent the motive? Feel something and then mentally construct a phony fucking cause? Maybe we lie for we need to, and so we tend to excuse ourselves from awareness of those deceptions for to know the truth — or to even know that you do not know it as you “know“ you do — would obliterate your ego, so feeble it might be before it, how contrary it might be to it. Or maybe we lie only out of need to fill the vacuum: perhaps there are no real reasons, no motives behind our behaviors and perceptions.
I make people think I’m less aware than I really am. I make myself think that I’m more aware than I really am. Why?
Maybe I am, then invent the reasons.
I hold in emotions, but feel I have to. Its just another survival technique. Its an effect of domestication. Like a dog is trained to not simply shit whenever it needs to wherever it happens to be, but go ring a bell by the door to let it be known that they have to go outside. Domestication is all about holding it and, if you’re lucky, being permitted to let it go in the right place or the right time. Only there really is no place for me to emotionally take a dump and sometimes I fear I’m constipated, bloated, and I have no laxative and really, really don’t want to try using my finger.