just one...

thats all it was.
just one.
there wasnt any reason behind it. i felt that i could tell just one. it wouldnt matter anyway, its just one anyway. one never makes a difference, one has no impact in the long run.
so i made one. i did one. just the one.
one which rapidly became two to prevent discovery of the one. who would notice one anyway? they almost did. until i did two.
it was easy. it didnt require much effort, just alittle thought and self control. it had to be small enough that no one would notice it right away. only i had to remember.
a flurry of words with the proper conviction. nothing to grand and nothing to inconsequential.
i lied.
one small lie. then more to keep that one real. until i was no longer me. with enough lies i became someone else. different name, origin, purpose, attitude. i had changed.
it was easy.
but now im having difficulty in keeping them seperate. im a delicate situation, where i have to watch my words, my behavior and keep myself from falling off the edge. to believe my own fabrications. to no longer distinguish my truth from truth. if i say it long enough the lies become real.
imagination can lead to creativity, or self delusion. its easy enough to imagine myself in egypt by the pyramids, or getting lost in barcelona. a whim of fancy and i went to cancun for a vacation, indulging in excesses of drink and meeting random women while bouncing my drunken self from bar to bar until i lost my wallet at a bar located just off the beach away from the regular tourist destination, led astray by the promise of a pretty hazel eyed young girl, whom i lost track of once there due in part to the alcohol and in part to the crowd into which she melted... its easy enough to create the image and the story. repeated too many times and i start to believe that i could have, that i did... and why not?
im slowly falling into the pattern of a compulsive liar...
its so much easier to be a fake me, with imaginary problems than having to face myself and my own realities, and admitting to things im not ready to admit about myself just yet... its an escape, a diversion from the regular bland life im leading just now. and who has not at some point desired, even in a subconscious manner, to be more than they are? to live a life resembling an oscar wilde novel, to have a story that would fit in nicely alongside a poe short story, to be more than a facsimili of others, to have the same experiences, the same type of memories, to stand out perhaps not by what one currently is, but by what one has done.
our past events alter how we are percieved. initial impressions change rapidly based not on what we do, but on stories that we can tell of what we have done. so if we create our own stories, how can that be a wrong? fact is cold and lifeless, fiction carries more weight it seems more possible and makes for far more interesting times. true, fact can be equally as impressive as fiction, but liberties are taken, events and times changed or altered.. and with sufficient modification, when does truth become fiction?
im rambling. stop.