Sometimes it’s worth it. Tell someone what they want to hear, it will ease tension. I’m talking about the little things, the passing troubles that have no greater bearing beyond the moment.

I left quietly, I stayed out of the way, retreated when nothing could be salvaged. I said I was not upset, the situation could not be foreseen. The lie was easy knowing it would ease. An hour and four cigarettes later, I am not sorry I lied. It helped by removing my feelings as a factor in the tension. This will blow over, be forgotten.

We all do it. Two coworkers discuss their misfortunes in commiseration, and smile for the customer who asks how things are going. Fine, always fine. We post on social networks about all the food, friends, fun and excitement in our lives, a fireworks display that is fleeting but dazzles out the darkness that makes it visible. It is chronic, constant, and cultural to lie. To perpetrate the illusion of balance and perfection.

Sometimes it’s worth it. Right now it makes me sick.

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