Vanidicus

PROLOGUE

          I am writing in my journal. A very on brand activity for when I feel a panic attack arriving. My mind always races, and it's a constant effort to get behind the wheel, and stay in front of that storm.

          The coffeeshop I usually use as my "writing haven," (aptly named the "On The Lam," a tongue in cheek homage to it's owner, Leo's, dead Great Uncle, who he claims was a descendant of "Billy The Kid," but unlike the name, Billy The Kid had no kids, and the owner is a complete fucking liar), was closed. I had opted to walk that day (which usually exhausts me, however worth it), and was not impressed by the lazy and honestly embarrassing sign Leo had left out front:

"SHUT DOWN FOR RENOVATONS.
SORRY FOR THE INCONVIENECE.
WILL RE-OPEN SOON."

            I know this town. My hometown. I can sense my bearings even if my plans go awry. Having looked around for just a few moments, my eyes landed on a picnic bench in the park a few blocks down from "On The Lam," like a sailor finding land after months at sea.
           March is usually brisk in Canada at this time of year, though, I was working up an anxiety sweat from both having my plans abruptly change, and from having worn far too many layers for such a deceivingly warm day, and thought spending some time to cool down would do me good.
          When I arrived at the picnic bench I felt safe. Like as if standing up exposes my skin inside out, and the moment I sit, I can become invisible. I like to believe a lot of things, and I liked these things especially, because they didn't end up hurting other people. These were lies that would keep me safe. And so I begin to write.

               Sometimes people lie when they don't have to. I found this is not because people are bad, but because they are dumb. Myself included. Humanity, as I see it, is nothing more than a solitary blubbering idiot, but I've also been called a cynic far too much than I care to admit, and perhaps, I'm wrong, but I don't think that I am, and I also wouldn't be lying. We believe our opinions are that similar to absolute truths, and this is why people lie when they don't have to. We can choose to believe reality, but would we really know it when we see it? Maybe people lie because they don't want to see the truth. And maybe they don't all want to be handed a magnifying glass. And maybe a lie isn't a lie at all. Maybe if you scratch the surface of a liar, you'll find someone who just wanted to sustain hope. And I don't think that's such a bad thing after all. Or maybe they just want to seem cool in front of their friends, and I guess I don't have a problem with that either.

           I put my pen down, and shift my thoughts to before. To Leo. To the coffeeshop. To my escape.
           I have no idea why I still go back to this place time after time, like a curious tongue inspecting a throbbing, infected tooth. Though, that's also a lie. I know exactly why I keep coming back to this awful place. To the awful coffee. To God awful Leo and his sketchy business practices. Because I can't lie to myself, not about this. Though I try as I might, I really wish I could.
          I know better; the opposite of hate will always be love. So I continue to write.

           And would it not be true to say that anything that transpires under a false narrative is not a lie with malicious intention, but rather an omission of a truth under the guise of naivety? And this is why I just leave it at "stupid," or "dumb," and carry on about my day. And this is also why I have stopped being invited to parties. Not that I would have gone anyways, but the ability to at least say "no," would be nice... you know? Control is fickle, but seeking it is splendid, however hollow. Come to think of it, I haven't been to a single social gathering since Mom passed away 5 years ago.

         The wind shifts, bringing the scent of mud and cold and damp, and I know the sun is getting ready to set. I hadn't looked up in a while.
         I rub the back of my neck at the thought, as if the act of acknowledging a hunchback would immediately fix it, and after lying to myself again (for good reason), I pack my things; a notebook, 2 joints, 1 dead lighter, a pack of smokes, a tarot card set, $2.75 in change, three pens (one red, one black and one blue), one pink highlighter, my android cell phone, a hair tie, and a medium sized scrap piece of poster paper with a message written in red ink, and begin to walk home.
         But not without first stopping by the coffeeshop, you know, out of love.