To be honest, it's a lesson that I've come to appreciate. Deceit has become my favorite bed-fellow, a true comrade, a familiar sidekick. Why, you ask? How could someone come to appreciate such a loathsome skill?
Because, quite frankly, the truth sucks. Ol' Jacky boy had it right when he exclaimed, "You can't handle the truth!" The thought of it makes me cringe. Truth is my least favorite foe.
It's truth that laughs at my clumsiness and lack of rhythm at dance parties. Truth points out that I wear too much makeup, but concedes that I look worse without it. Truth laughs bitterly at my pretenses of confidence and caring, knowing that underneath it all is an emotional dead end. Yet, truth revels most when I am pensive and indulging my self-flagellation, as I sift through past regrets and my biggest mistakes. And, worst of all, when I say it was all my fault, truth agrees.
So when I say that I am glad that love taught me to lie, I mean it. More than anything, it's a method of self preservation. And there is no one I lie more to than I lie to myself.
And there is no where I lie more to myself than in my dreams. I dream of how it should have been, trick myself into thinking that it still could be. Little lies that keep hope alive and a glimmer in my eye. Because there is always a possibility. At least that's what I tell myself.
There's always the possibility that the past doesn't matter anymore. That we both haven't changed and become different people. That I still feel like home to him.
Sometimes I secretly wish that I was completely exposed, that my mind was open and free to be explored and discovered by anyone and everyone. That all my faculties for deception have been torn away, leaving me vulnerable... but free. I wonder what people would think of me. I wonder what I would think of myself.
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Last night, I dreamed that I saw him. He was looking out on Lake Michigan, deep in thought. I silently watched him for awhile, selfishly soaking in the details of his face, burning it into my memory, reveling in my unconscious delusion. Suddenly, he laughed quietly to himself, a crooked smile on his face, shaking his head softly. I called his name and he turned, surprised. His face lit up, seeing me, and my heart stopped.
I dreamed that we were on the beach, spread out on an old blanket, staring at the stars and listening to the waves. I ran my fingers through his unruly hair and he closed his eyes and smiled, moaning softly with contentment. He told me about his best friend in first grade and his first girl friend in college. He chatted animatedly about music and composing, confessed his passions and fears. He spoke warmly of his mother and proudly of his nephew. He had a smile in his eyes.
I dreamed that I no longer felt afraid. I told him about visiting my great grandmother and the way I felt the first time I saw a grown man cry. I told him about my love for fresh flowers and my secret childhood crush on Joey Lawrence from Blossom. I confided that my biggest fear was dying and growing old alone. He hugged me. It felt natural to be in his arms.
I dreamed that he was perfect and that I was perfect and that we were perfect. We made love and we were closer to one another than we had ever been to anyone before and would ever be to anyone again. We were the only two people who existed in the world. It was strange and it was beautiful and it was absolute.
It had to be right. It has to be right.
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