I was once a liar. I wove fiction with effortless grace. Falsehoods touched to my tongue more often than food. I lied about lying. When I was caught, I instantly lied my way out. And everyone believed me. Not only the gullible, but all. I was a master. And I was nothing.
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So I vowed never to lie again. Even if the truth led to my death. I am not perfect. I occasionally reflexively lie when confronted with a mistake or a bad situation. Then I catch itself. I ask if I want to go back to the abyss of nothing. And I correct the lie.
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People ask if my stories about my life are true. They question me on things which sound fantastic or deranged. There are no lies left in me. I root them out vindictively, with genuine malice against my own spiritual frailty. I was once a liar. Now I would rather die.
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I did not do it alone.
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