We Could Talk In Morse Codes
When I told you it was fine, I was hoping you wouldn’t believe me. When I told you that you needn’t worry about me, I never expected you to really do it. So when I stopped saying anything at all, the last thing I thought you would ever do is try to claim to know me so well.
There are no logical reasons for these lies that I have told. I’ve sown a mask to my face, that now have melted into my skin, so I can no longer tell where it ends and I begin. It’s like looking in a mirror but never really seeing, because what I’d need is a scalpel just to peel away this film that’s coated my entire being. Imagine gold, imagine greatness, imagine something special that lies beneath this plastic skin; but when I unzip my veins all that flows is a dull red. And nothing scares me more than being simply… average.
I’ve lost several words through the course of my brief life. “Happy” was the first to go, but to be honest, I still haven’t truly felt it’s impact. “Sad”, though, was a word that’s hard to live without. So I’d stutter, with my speech impaired, trying to find a way about. I devised all sorts of cryptic ways to convey this one emotion— as if the world gave out prizes to whomever who could find the most immense ocean of ineffable puzzles in which one could drown. I lost “no,” and “help,” and “stay,” almost concurrently. I lost “hello,” and “pain,” and “family”. And then I lost “me”. So all I’ve ended up saying is “please,” and “thank you,” and “sorry”— Please look at I; thank you for looking at I; sorry you had to look at I— no one understands an impaired speech.
Later on I found out that I felt less like choking if, to I, the words didn’t have a meaning. Instead of inhaling all that salt underwater, I could keep, at the very least, my head above the surface. My lungs were lighter anchors. Now you see, a lie is ten times easier to keep afloat. I haven’t just stopped saying what I mean out of fear; I found, above all, a new life buoy.
These lies… they keep I from being simply average.