I have found that people prefer the lie to the truth.
For example, a very simple lie that I have given is that I did not marry Harris, due to the fact that he is a fool. It's true that he is a fool—in fact, I have met horses far more enthralling than him. But the true reason I did not marry him is because Harris is not the one my heart burns for.
Here is another lie. I often tell my father, when I go out into the countryside, that I am going to write. My wonderful father does not inquire further, as he is used to my writing proclivities by now.
The truth is that, sometimes, I go out to meet the young woman with the box.
She's always reading a book, pretending not to see me. To grab her attention ,I tap her shoulder, or call her name (I kissed her on the cheek once, but only as a joke).
She tells me about her adventures on other planets. How she outdrunk a Nimon, and how she and her friend Me got lost in a haunted school and had to fight their way out, and how she once lost her greatest friends.
After one of these talks, I begged her to take me on a trip. The woman resisted, but one time, she relented.
“Tell no one,” she said. I promised.
That night, I saw wonders I have never seen again.
For seven days, I told no one. Then, a publisher came to my house. My dreams of writing would be fulfilled, for a price.
“Anything,” I said.
“Tell me about the girl,” he said.
Had I more sense, I would have wondered why he knew about the girl. But I was a silly and stupid, and lusted to be a writer. So I looked into his blood-red eyes, and spilled everything.
The next day, I found the girl. Her large eyes were bursting with tears.
“You lied to me. Now they know where I am. I should have never let you travel with me,” said the girl.
“I'm sorry,” I said, but I could see that the damage was done.
“I'm sorry too. I can't let you remember me. Close your eyes,” the girl said. I obeyed, and felt soft lips on mine.
And now, I must confess that I have been lying. For I cannot remember this girl's name, and there is no record of the man who asked me about the girl. Was this just a fiction? My father thinks so, as he blames my recollections on “too much imagination.”
I am alone among the trees, my dear diary. The wind has begun to pick up, and the witching hour approaches. I desperately await girl, who I fear either does not exist, or does not wish to see me anymore.
In the distance, I think I see the faint outline of a grey box.
Then again, I may be lying to myself, no?
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