I like lying. I enjoy
it in all its forms. I like lying by omission, deliberate obfuscation, and just
saying patent untruths. I enjoy it more when it is inconsequential, like
narrating a story about my breakfast and saying I had something other than what
I did. I sometimes connect this to my love for cinema and literature, two of
the most beautiful ways to enjoy dishonesty. I also connect it to my fear of
being known; it is easy to avoid being known if not everything you say
can be taken at face value. But there is more than that to lying. Any good
story requires embellishment. I’ve always maintained that all communication is
miscommunication. Meaning is often negotiated by so many (mis)understandings
between the speaker and the audience. I’ve also always felt that the fact that
interpretation is a discipline of its own is evidence of the fact that things
are rarely self-evident, even when we try to communicate clearly. But I’m sure
it does not help that I lie on purpose.
A debate I have seen
sometimes when talking about state obligations to curb misinformation is the
question of how to define it. There seems to be an agreement, in principle,
that freedom of speech includes the freedom to lie online. Lying is not
automatically deceptive. The obvious question of where we draw the line is one I
like to inhabit in regular conversation. I saw a joke once that you could just
claim to have a phd because no one really checks. Sometimes I think really confident
people are also lying, it just manifests differently.
There is security in
lying. No one can draw a conclusion about you that is true to your person, even
if they have great judgement. No one can always know what you are up to. No one
can know whom your friends are and whom you cannot stand. I have often thought
about the fact that if a lot of people show up to my funeral, it will be a huge
collection of people who are strangers to each other. My worlds might only
collide when I get married or die.
Sometimes I wonder if
the people I don’t lie to know about their privileged position. It is sort of
like the personalised notification tones I have for them on WhatsApp; it is a
feature of my relationships with them that they have no idea about. Over time, I
come to associate these sounds with the people themselves, often forgetting
that they would be meaningless to them.
I’ve had friends
complain, on occasion, that they do not know anything that is going on in my
life. My parents do not make this complaint but they also never know what is
going on in my life. Does this also count as lying? I am aware of my reluctance
to share details that I consider trivial or temporary. The problem, of course,
is that most of life is about details that are trivial or temporary. What book
you are reading right now, what I made for lunch yesterday, why this girl keeps
coming up to me at the gym…these things make up your whole world. And yet when I
go to bed today, they becomes yesterday’s news. When someone was asking me for
life updates once and I glossed over an entire incident, I felt a mild reprimand
from them for not giving details. I tried the excuse that they were asking for
yesterday’s paper. And when she said “but that’s what I want to read,” I could
not think of a response.
When something does
happen to me, I am already thinking about how I might make comedy out of it. It
cannot be tenuous, it cannot be laboured, and it cannot be unfeasible. It
cannot also be gaudy. The point of embellishment is not to paint myself in better light; it is not to present me as the version of myself I wish I was. The
point of the story is the story. The value of it is in the narration, and it
stops being meaningful as the conversation ends. Of course, some movies
can be watched many times, but most movies are to be viewed once. Then you move
on in life. My mother always says I am terrible at lying. She has a point, but
I am also really good at it.
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