Everyone is capable of lying.

It had been quite a long day, sifting through everything in the apartment. Every room. Every box, cup, container. Lifting the fridge and the stove and the microwave above my head, searching. As my anxiety peaked and came to a screeching halt. Feeling defeated I kept wandering around to each room, pawing at things. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I didn't check here quite enough or thoroughly. Where did it go? Where could it have gone?

I finally made up my mind.

I plopped myself down on the mattress, tucked the curtains behind the water heater and stared up at the dim blue sky. I thought for awhile, what I would say. What I would do. How can I control this situation, how do I finally get myself back together. What is wrong? With me? Is it me? How, I wonder, do I find myself staring up at the same dark blue sky heavy with the evening, the night's chill creeping up behind me ominously with the grip of childhood fears and a black, tarred hand reaching from the shadows to pull me into a limbo.

Why do I fear such things? I wondered and then realizing in the moment, oh, I am in limbo. I'm in a dark, vexing void of hatred and dystopia which, isn't necessarily a bad thing because, how, could I explain such an ineffable thing with a word that is the black to the white? My dystopia, she's not imaginary. It's a cold hard reality of warped and unfair affairs and exaggerations that are so outrageous I can relate it to a British sitcom in my sleep.

I wonder, if these child hood fears, are really so childish or if being a child is really the worst thing one could be.

I can fix this.

How do I not be afraid afraid anymore?

I could use a gun, perhaps.

A knife, at best.

Maybe for the rest of my life, I will not speak to anyone and just wear plated armor.

I'm wandering. These are not physical trials, in fact it's a relief through physical fixation. In fact, excessive fidgeting, the fidgeting it takes away from my restraints. It's a release, it's a paradigm of concentration - distraction from the Vitamin D pills in the cupboard that I'm not sure I've opened yet - I popped the cap off and peeked inside. Is it here? No. I pop it shut, continue digging through the cupboard.

I've realized I'm flipping things over again, starting where I started out. I'm too stubborn to admit it, I don't want to believe I'm doing this again. For the 3rd time in the past 4 hours I'm searching again, wandering in a circle like a mental patient. Is this a physcward? Is my head psychosomatic? Slamming the cupboards shut, I slam my thoughts shut. I walk myself with a great deal of anger and disappointment, towards my room.

I plop myself down on the mattress, again.

I haven't made up my mind. I cannot sort my mind. I cannot solve my mind, it is a rubix cube of deceit, it is a wardrobe of memories of liars and fighters and bad blood followed with yelling slurs, sometimes in slurred speech patterns. The smell of drugs. It's the sinking feeling in your stomach, it's the pit that sinks deeper and deeper and you don't want to go there but you dig yourself deeper and deeper, you want to solve this. Dive under, holding your breath. The pressure is all too much, building up. The stomach, it's now an endless stretch of despair and self pity. The pressure on your brain is explainable, you're pulling your own hair out

I sigh deeply, my lip tingles and twitches. I bite it very hard, forcing the spasm to cease.

I start thumbing through all the treasures I've found in my search, our treasures. I didn't mean to come across these things and I wonder what the story is behind them. Some of them I know, I've seen their journey from start to finish and even though forgotten, these objects have stayed to endure all that has happened as witness. So how do I say this, how does it ever come out right?

Why is it always so difficult to care with words? Sometimes people just won't let them touch you, they want you to struggle. This is not what I'm looking for, but here it is. I'm looking for a reason, but I have all these memories here, with me, to keep my soul warm against my cold skin. It's so cold in here. I untuck the curtains from behind the heater and crank the boiler on.

I begin to look for a sweater, goose flesh slowly appears and I shiver. Maybe if I get comfy, and watch a show or two, I'll fall asleep. I can forget about this, and one day, maybe tomorrow when I'm ready I can face this new, faceless, self-announced enemy. I'm walking towards the large forest green laundry basket when I spot myself in the mirror. Puffy eyes, bloodshot and no whiter than my face. Wet, soaking wet. I remove my shirt and wipe away the tears, casting it aside to clothe myself in a fresh, warm sweater.

That's, much better.

I'm still looking through the basket, I just want to know. I have to see. I need to find out if it's here or not, is it? Is it? I look up, brushing the hair stabbing me in the eye violently as I'm lunging around. She stares back at me, my reflection, dried up and angry. I realized, I'm doing it again. I pull my sweater closer, to hug me and warm the deep, deep pit in my stomach. I shuffle towards the mattress which squeaks beneath in protest as I struggle to become comfortable. I'm restless and unappreciative, I'm alone so I can't complain about this irrational irritation I have. No one can see me this way, because I fear no one in capable of understanding. I light up a cigarette and fire up my laptop, the technology I swear is the home to one or more ghosts as the thing is so ancient, so persistent and has a mind of its own. It supports Netflix, so there's that.

The computer fired itself up when I opened it, perhaps it was in sleep mode. I've stopped staring at the smoke coming from the carcinogens I hold in my hand. Word pad is open. Waiting, completely blank and in the right format. The one that I like, Times New Roman always looks so good when it's printed. No, I tell myself. You should just go to bed, it's only 6:53 PM but you should still go to bed it's been a bad day and it'll only get worse.

I ignore this, go about my typing, I become bored and stop. Perhaps hours have passed, so I look around, there's now a roaring of rain outside. If I listen hard enough, I can hear WuTang playing in the hallway. The clock flashes to 9:27 PM and I'm on a popular social network scrolling past people's lives and opinions. There's a video, it's viral. I click the link and Youtube flips open, there's a woman who comes to life on the screen. She has cue cards with bad writing on them. I've gathered she's upset with her life and so am I. I'm indifferent, people won't do anything about it besides whine. I close all the tabs, releasing the hotkeys with a loud sigh.

Word pad is open. Waiting, but this time, it says something.

"Everyone is capable of lying. Everyone. Your mom lied to you about pretty much everything so you wouldn't do the things she didn't want you to do. She's the reason the boogey man exists. Dad lied to you about the bullets being in the gu, that you didn't have to be afraid of the monsters because you could just shoot them dead. Dad new mom was the boogey man, but he was scared too. Your best friend lied to your friends and she probably has lied to you to ditch you and do drugs and get drunk. Your exes lied, that's why you're always dating someone new. What's new? Will this be different? Old friends lie, tell you they're doing fine but you can see it in their face, eyes and clothing and their shoes. Teachers. They lie, too. That stranger begging for change the other day did, too. He probably wanted to buy some drugs instead of food and it won't matter to you until a few years when that person is someone you know, or that person is you.

You realize money never leaves your hands unless something goes in the other hand in turn, anyone who lets their own time leave their hands without anything in return either has too much of it, or no use of it. Or he is paying for that which is not materialistic. You paid for that person's drugs. Or their dinner. Whatever made them happy, you paid for it. You bought their happiness.

People keep saying you're fucked up. They nitpick, tell you what you should and shouldn't do, or be. What you can or can't feel. How you should feel. Do you ever get to make a choice anymore? So they call you crazy because you've finally exploded, your brain is too intelligent and arrogant, it refuses to shut the fuck up. Sometimes, you're not crazy and you're fine. Some people are just assholes and for realizing the negative things in life and accepting them doesn't mean you're cynical, you've just finally become sane and those people are probably in denial.

In this case, do NOT ever take those assholes seriously not even for a minute, whether they're going somewhere in life or not. You realize that the emotions you feel are chemicals like serotonin and dopamine. If you were to take some pills (prescribed or not) to alter your brain chemistry, you would suddenly have a mental BOOM of new perspectives. Wallah! So there you have it, your everyday thinking is temporary, write down your thoughts and I can guarantee when you're reading it later on - whether it be tomorrow, in a week, a month or a year or two, one or more aspects of your work will have changed by then. You will disagree with yourself in writing. With that being said, where you live is temporary, even your friends are temporary, your love life, your belongings will be replaced your skin will get better or maybe you'll lose all your hair. Maybe it'll be grey. If something changes for the worse, it can change for the best and unfortunately, vice versa.

You try to remember these things, but sometimes I can't believe what I've written and some days I don't believe what I write."

I close off the document, hesitantly. Then I smirk.

"Everyone is capable of lying", I say to myself with a smile. The computer clicks off and my apathy clicks on as I put out my cigarette and I snuff out my anxiety as I lay down.

"Even to themselves."