He lies to his wife, lies to his children, lies to his followers, lies to his friends. No, sorry. Not to his friends because he doesn’t have any. The liar doesn’t have friends, he has… figurines, or pawns, or deluded admirers.
That’s right. And he doesn’t live, he subsists within his own exquisitely well decorated prison. He walks around, alone among others, smiling and waving, buying and selling. He drugs his one-track mind to sleep, drugs his trimmed body to work, drugs his flaccid organ to night clubs, and the next day goes to church. He has sex with himself while screwing the other.
The liar is popular, rich, famous and funny. He loves his life and is afraid to die. He can’t stand sickness, can’t tolerate unhappiness, can’t understand meditation. He watches tv, follows the news and dresses fashionably.
The liar cheats his partner, cheats his employer and cheats himself. He’s an expert with words, he knows exactly what to say and when to say it. He knows when to play the hero and when to play the victim. The liar is a player.
He succeeds in everything he does, he hardly ever gets criticised because he’s wise, slick and sly, politically correct, healthy and he supports the army. He suffers from headaches but doesn’t tell anyone. He goes to the dentist regularly and makes sure his teeth are white.
The liar doesn’t last forever
Because he can’t enter eternity
The liar might be your neighbour
He might be you or he might be me
What a disgusting blogpost
I feel like regurgitating my dinner
Please excuse me