but a lie

I have always been two people.

I lived for a decade in one place, and a decade in another. The places were very different. I was not different. I was the same. One part of me swam downward and the other up. That has always been true.

I love being two people. City mouse, country mouse. I didn’t always. On the train between the two places, I would cry and press my fingers against the cold window and feel sorry for myself. I would make up stories about who I really was and I would act out those stories and, for a time, I wouldn’t be anyone but a lie.

Lying was a small sin that could get big very fast, a snake you never saw the tail of. Step carefully, with two feet, one belonging to the city and the other to the country. Gently dance over what you thought you said.

When I can remember, I regret some things I’ve done. When I am feeling nostalgic, I think about how I would do it all again and right the wrongs and be more charming at parties and be less fearful of love and be slower to judge or to react. That’s when I’m back on the train, between places, certain I do not belong anywhere.

But sadness can be a lie we tell ourselves, too. Cry carefully.

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

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