The Last Message To Scott

Scott is just a nickname for a person I know. And this is as much a letter to me as it is a letter to him. It's all pretty raw because it was written with all the intent to shove it in his face.

"Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt"
- Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare

To: You
Subject: Oh, you’re killing me.

Believe.
In this word, as you probably know, lies another word: LIE.
Have you ever told a lie? Of course you have, unless you’re some kind of saint. Although I’m sure they did lie once or twice, too. Maybe you’re living under a lie right now. How does it feel? It feels pretty darn crappy. Right? Do you like hiding things? The feeling of having to constantly put up a front to everyone around you, is it nice? 
No.
It doesn’t give you anything nice; not a warm, fuzzy feeling, not an urge to break out into song, not anything wonderful at all. It, in plain terms, sucks. So stop.
What are you afraid of?
Rejection? People’s ‘opinions’? Really now. What’s stopping you?
Sooner or later, you’ve got a find out what that is. Because, you know what? Those lies… they get bigger and bigger. And, like rubber bands, lies eventually –SNAP!- and hit you right in the face.
But it’s not only that. Oh no, honey.
When you tell lies, you of course get accustomed to it. I’m telling you, you will. Suddenly, it will all become part of you. What you don’t know is that lies are not just a part of you, coexisting with you. Lies devour you, dominating you.
And it will dictate your every move.
You can’t love him because…
You can’t go there because…
You can’t do that because…
Why? Even you don't know.
It just makes sense. Those lies are suddenly believable, well at least your lies. You will no longer believe in anyone else. Never fully trusting because of the non-truths you’ve put up out there. They’re forcing you to think that everyone else does it like you do, too.
If I lie, everyone else can’t be saying the whole truth, you rationalize.
Rational thinking my buttocks.
And that kind of thinking gives you less than nothing. And that’s negative nothing.
You can’t believe in the people around you. How can they believe you back? You don’t believe in fate and hope? How do you plan on living your life, planning every single detail and accrediting everything bad happening to punishment? You’ll only end up bashing yourself. Then you’re so beaten, you can’t get up anymore.
You can’t believe in love. How the hell else will you be able to make a sense out of humanity? Go on ahead. Don’t believe. You’d be lucky to die with just your crooked old house and your fat cat.
I’m telling you. Beware of those lies, you mangy old thing.
Don’t wait until you find out the sensibility of this whole thing. When that time comes, it’s probably too late.
Too late.

Love,
your conscience.

The End

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