Can I lie now? Is it too late?
The only thing I’ve been sharing my bed with are notebooks. Paper is my only confidant. Two or three at a time, each serves a different purpose. For escape, for fantasy, for living outside these four walls.
Two are lies, ramblings from my imagination, the writing indecipherable except to myself. The other is full of my sometimes insane thoughts, the edges decorated with fragmented lyrics and doodles of stick men.
Lately, I’ve made the effort to word my thoughts as evasively as possible – for my own amusement, for practical reasons. It’s almost like a ‘break the code’ game, except most things have double meanings and there are no right or wrong answers.
Maybe I should get a job with the government.
I feel old today, like Morla.
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