There is so much dishonesty in every single one of us, perhaps for perfectly good scientific reasons. We’re hard at work all the time protecting our most sensitive areas with armor and bizarre distractions. Maybe the organism can’t survive without lies. Maybe it takes a steady balance of deceit in and out to maintain homeostasis. How much of this is necessary? Would my heart stop beating if I just told it like it is?

I don’t know how it is and neither does anybody else. Still, we all know a lot more than we’re saying.

I can almost see it, all that juicy data held back, the way I can almost see air inside a soap bubble. I know it’s there, because the bubble isn’t collapsing. Quantity is indicated by volume. I’ve got a feel for it. A worthless sense of what’s in there. Personas stretch to accommodate the unexpected bulges of fear or love from within and it’s never a surprise. But I am baffled by all the unspoken information.

People are so confusing that I want to stop them midsentence, have them repeat everything and promise they mean it. Then I could cling to something that definitely means something, only to realize moments later it probably means something else. There are other problems, too. What is anyone likely to do? I remember worrying about this in kindergarten. I was a tiny little crazy person and people said the strangest things to me. I acted like it was fine by me.

I was like this little peanut guy from snailbooty.