By all rights we are liars.
In the roughest and cleanest basis what we tell is fake, but we’re preaching possibility.
Our sensibility gets the better of us and our tongues cannot stop.
We wreak havoc in the slander of the nonexistent, the crimes and vengeance of pseudo-history. We don’t have to prove other life forms, other worlds, or the supernatural– it’s all fair game and to us we create the proof.
Liars talk in the heat of the moment, like when we love someone after a warm kiss and see that the feeling’s faded upon chapped lips; when our hate convinces us of reasons or malice when there really is none, but jealousy; attempting justification in the faults that we have performed . We also cope, cope with a loss or missed opportunity. In the heat of a moment we’re comforting ourselves and tell how it could be. We’re driven, basically, by regret.
It is dangerous ground, being what we are. A lie can be harmful, make or break you . But we can’t be condemned; not without tearing apart the bestsellers of gripping adventures; not without the cancellation of a channel’s best-loved sitcom; not without the backlash to the greatest love story(ies) ever told. We could not see life in any other way without our duties of creating falsehoods.
And we’ll stray, starve– sit in office buildings doing jobs we hate and waste the minutes for that big break in words that only we’re certain will succeed. We’ll believe in our lies, and we’ll fight for this shaky, unforgiving way of life. We get together, talk amongst ourselves how to further fool our outside world. We help each other race to the finish– we provide our services so that one of us alone will come up with the most conviction of beautiful bullshit. What pisses us off is plagiarism– and sadly our workshops risk being that breeding ground.
We’re brilliant– because we get away with it.
In your pardon you’ve dubbed us the The Writer. You let us run.