The Art Of Lying

Dec 6, 2018
Articles About Graffiti
0 0

Tell me son, what sins have you committed?

What sin have I committed? – I think to myself. I have not done anything. What do I tell him now to this; something I have to get out inevitably.

I disobeyed my mother – I say with downcast and sad eyes.

And after and after – he insists.

I have not done all my homework – I continue repented, after wandering with my eyes looking for a foothold.

And after and after.

I have not been paying attention in class.

And after and after.

And then what? Mumbles in silence my inner voice.

I have pushed a classmate. Because he made fun of me – almost cries my sense of justice.

And after and after.

Well, I do not know – I say looking at him, my eyes begging to let me go and end this charade, since my knees hurt too.

I said bad words – I exclaim, satisfied with my answer.

And after and after – he continues in a bored and monotonous voice.

Did you touch yourself?

Touch myself? No – I say amazed – what on earth does that mean?

Okay – he insists – and after?

And in that moment of absolute confusion and emptiness of mind, I get a flash of genius: I told lies.

And with that proclaimed judgment, my sense of lying was canonized.

You drank? – Asks my friend’s mother, my host in her camping tent, cleaning, without looking at me, the bottom.

No – I answer in between vomiting.

Are you sure?

I must have caught cold at the beach – I justify battered – I swam too late.

Plus two bottles of wine with your son – says my mind – and I am amazed he doesn’t get any stomach trouble.

This is a one-way ticket to Hong Kong, how much money do you have? – Asks me serious a beautiful Thai Airways ground stewardess at the boarding door.

I have this much (really not much) with me and much more (not at all) in my checked baggage – I reply, looking serene in her beautiful dark eyes. She stares at me for a long, silent, and motionless eternal moment, before stamping my boarding pass.

We would like to know why you are requesting an extension of your tourist stay in Japan and how much money you have to reside, this additional period, in our country. The young clerk at the Tokyo office immigration, smiles assenting, while waiting for me to take the application form he’s holding out.

But that was long ago.

Last month the police stop me in the middle of the night, in the darkest countryside, under a beautiful starry sky, and ask me: Are you drunk?

Yes – I answer to that friendly soldier – I come from a birthday party.

Am I cured? I do not know, but what is certain is that no one has taught me anything and no one is responsible, besides me. What I could do, I knew it already and did it when it was useful, and above all it always went well. In addition, those moments of silence, waiting for the verdict, had an intense meditation space. Is that true?

Source by Andrea Scarsi

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *