See the lie

Good relationships are based on trust, which develops over time when you tell each other the truth. But there is always that instance where a lie seems to be the best recourse. Just a tiny one, just this once... It's not as easy as it sounds...That's because whenever we experience a basic emotion, the muscles in our face automatically express that emotion. The better your poker face is, the faster you can regain composure and the less noticable your show of emotion is, but even if you need electric sensors to pick up on it, in that fraction of a moment, the truth comes out: literally written all over your face. Your face can't lie.


"Are you okay?"

No hesitation. If you hesitate, they suspect. Lie to yourself so that you can convincingly lie to others.

"Of course I am."

I flash an action unit 12, willfully pulling my zygomatic major into submission. You seem mollified even though my orbicularis oculi, and pars orbitalis are frozen in a tell tale way that should alert even the least observant to my insincerity. Your emotional intuition is shot at the moment. In the height of your reveling, you have become clinically autistic. I am an object to you now. Something to talk at rather than to.

"Oh good!" you say, and pursue the topic; transforming into an unknowing sadist.

I don't want to hear it. Stop, please stop.

Frontalis and pars medialis contract in tandem of their own accord, my triangularis falters and follows suite. But it's only for a fraction of a second and you are in a state of rapture; too self absorbed at the moment to see the pain that flashes across my face.

It's better this way. Lie by omission. For sanity's sake, it is best not to affirm the existance of a problem that has no solution. All that you can do is try and forget about it... Try very hard...
Good friendships are based on a foundation of truth and trust, and though I have truth bound and gagged in the closet, I hope you can find it within you to trust me when I say that this is something that your'e better off not knowing about.

Am I okay?







...Of course I am...

Its the bleachers for me

I haven't been online in weeks and it sort of feels good to be back. It seems that even the technodunce that is moi feels the pull of the worldwideweb hah..

As far as an update on real life goes, I really don't know what to put up because basically; nothing has happened to me at all. All the drama in the world has been relegated to the telenovela lives of my friends... but that's their story to tell not mine. Intrigue by extension doesn't really constitute much in any case, I can tell you, and anyway though I support them and all, this is one of those times where I think that it would be wise if I were to cheer from the bleachers. There is the overwhelming urge to actively help in whatever way I can but again, I've turned the situation over and come to the conclusion that that; would be a very stupid thing to do.

Following up on the bleachers bit, lets go with a baskeball analogy:

Everyone knows that basketball fans don't just jump on to the court in an attempt to help their favorite players. First off, it's against the basic rules of the game (you can't sub if you're not part of the team); Secondly, they have those little wall things and the rest of the crowd (not to mention popcorn/hotdog vendors and ringside reporters plus the cheerleaders) between you and the court so It'd be pretty hard to 'jump in' as it were; Thirdly, and more importantly, if your average fan (the most well meaning soul in the world but also having the hand/eye coordination of a sea cucmber) just followed the urge to jump into the mix do you know what would happen? That's right: It'd all go to pot. Knowing this I'm officially distancing myself from the matter.

So ladies and gentlemen, when you have a difficult relationship type problem where should the social retard be? dingdingding! Cheering, foam finger clad,waving a banner with encouraging words several dozen yards away in the bleachers.That, I can do. In 8 different languages too. Good job that.

Messy

Sitting in the half light in front of my laptop, its screen the only source of illumination, I pause and think about how things are so messy. And by things, I mean love lives. Not mine to be sure (that which does not exist cannot be messy). But I’m involved in a mess by extension and it’s rather uncomfortable.

I don’t know what I can do to help. And believe me, I want to help. She’s my friend. He’s my friend. He likes her. She’s torn and befuddled and all kinds of confused. And here I am trying to mediate. I’m treading softly in unfamiliar territory hoping to God that my foot doesn't stray over some emotional landmine and desperately trying to make sure that nothing breaks.

I feel like a clumsy kid entering the glassware section of the department store. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Wanting nothing more at the moment than to put all the pretty glass feelings away, encased in layers of bubble wrap and stowed under lock and key in an impenetrable store room. Somewhere I know they’ll be safe... But I'm too afraid to touch anything.

Too afraid because if anything moves, everything will all fall apart; shattering on the cold, white tiles. They’ll end up lying in dangerous bits that will probably cut you when you bend down to retrieve the jagged pieces. It’s not even my life and I’m stressed. Am I caring too much? How much is too much? And how do I stop caring?

Love lives are just so... messy.