Two Truths and a Lie

I told you the truth. To the best of my recollection I told you the truth. Not that, when I told you the truth, the truth that I told you was to the best of my recollection. But now, as I tell you this, that the best of my recollection is that, when I told you, what I told you was the truth. But the truth is difficult, and recollecting it is difficult, too. So, too, the truths I tell may be that: One man's too foolish attempt at reality.

A lie said often enough is real. Lies are always real, I suppose, as real as anything else. But a lie repeated is closer to truth than the lie as it started. And sometimes I lie, too. And I may one day lie to you, and may have lied to you, too, before, when I was trying to tell the truth. Most often when I lie I am trying to tell the truth and my truths come out as lies. And so, when speaking, I will try to make you laugh. Because if one laughs then it is no longer a lie, it is a joke.

And I will joke about this and that, you and me, reality and other. I will tell the truth I know, which is my truth, and the only truth one can really tell, too. And too often we try to make our truths line up until our truths come out like lies. Which is why, I suppose, it might be better to lie in the first place.