As a little kid, I used to tell lies. LOADS of them. I could tell a lie to impress my friends, I could tell a lie to get what I wanted, I could tell a lie to get away with doing wrong, I could tell lies for the sake of anything. Many things happened when I was younger and unblushingly, I chose to tell lies to wriggle my way out of trouble and to keep up with the “cool” kids in school. I was a habitual liar. I lied all day all night. My nose would have grown far longer than Pinocchio’s.
As I grew older, I guess I grew to become more sensible and with added responsibilities as an older sibling, I managed to eventually crush this old habit of lying like a can and fling it far far away till it disappeared from my sight. I couldn’t bear seeing my younger siblings grow up to become someone like me. Someone who lived in a world of lies and revelled in it. I couldn’t live with myself.
One is never perfectly honest and I admit that I am one of those. While I try my hardest not to lie now, the inevitable happens. However, the aftermath of lying is a deadly contrast from before. In the past, I could lie without batting an eyelid and do it like it was second nature to me. But now, telling a lie engages all of my courage and the guilt of lying chews, eats and gnaws at my conscience like a smelly old sock. I feel like a complete disaster.
No one likes being called a liar. I’m trying my utmost, everyday, to live life as honestly as I can.