It’s a lie.
What’s a lie? Everything’s a lie.
The sky is a lie, the air you’re breathing is a lie. The words on this paper and even the paper itself is a lie.
It’s all a lie.
It feels as if I’m the only one who knows it. I look around at this lie, this downright stupidity, and see a sort of blissfulness ignorance on the faces of the people living the lies. Or perhaps they themselves are the lies? It’s hard to tell what the source is when it’s all the same thing--a lie.
If my mouth ever did utter these words I’d be thought insane. People would cross away from me, glaring as they went, whispering lies.
Lies. What a strong word that is. What an accurate word that is.
I lock myself in the bathroom stall and stare at the walls. How appealing that shade of teal is! It reminds me of the feel of the ocean, the way it pulls with the moon, its beauty and mystery in the dead of night, and the fear and acceleration you feel when stand above it. I feel myself fade, fade away from this world, away from the lie, and into the beauty of the truth.
I’m on a beach, in the dead of night. It’s quite chilly, and I rub my sleeveless arms and look around, waiting, perhaps, for a person to appear, or a dramatic thing to happen--something to make this worthwhile. The moon is dancing upon the ocean’s waves, and I sneak a smile at its inky black waters before I hear my name called fearfully. My eyes are torn away from the playful water and to the worried face of a man. He’s much older than me, his hair already beginning to turn white as gracefully as a mountain top turns white within the winter. His clothes are wet, perhaps from swimming or rain, drawn tightly around his thin and bent body.
“Sir,” I say respectfully as he approaches me. Those piercing blue eyes that I’ve always adored stare into me with almost distaste. Finally, he stops, standing much too tall above me. At full height, he’s seven feet tall, but he’s old now, and his back is bent from too many years of hauling things, of too many troubles and too many worries. When he does speak, his words cut through the night like a knife.
“You lied.” That’s all he has to say. I grimace, turning away from him so that he doesn’t see my face.
“Sir, I--”
“Lied. You said you’d help, but you didn’t.”
I look down at my feet and edge them into the sand. The further I push them, the warmer my feet feel. “I tried, sir, I did.”
“Obviously not hard enough.” His heart is soft, softer than the sand my feet are tearing apart, but when he’s betrayed and his heart is ripped, you can hear it in his voice. That’s what hurts.
I have to face him. My morals leave me no choice. Turning to him, I say, “Sir. It’s too much to keep up with. I have to keep up with what’s happening here, and--”
“What’s happening in that fake world.” He does finish sentences a lot, doesn’t he? I’ve only just noticed. “What’s happening there doesn’t matter. It’s fake, it’s unreal! Help us. We’re what matters, we’re what’s real!”
It’s one thing for me to say that this world is false, but it’s an entirely different thing for another person to say it. I get defensive. “The world, this ‘fake world’”--I put air quotes--“is very well built. They’re learning how to survive.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is too cold. “They’re not going to survive. They never did, they never will. It’s a fake world.”
“But I’m there!” I gesture behind me, as if the world is only a step away--which, in all reality, it is. “I’m stuck there! I have a life there, a family. I have friends.”
He looks down. He seems to be angry with me. “I told you not to get too attached.” The way he said it, in a teary watery voice--it enrages me. It’s like I fell in love with a puppy and he’s faking sympathy. But his next words show he’s not, because his voice wavers too terribly for him to be acting. “It’s like meeting someone with a terminal illness. They’re not going to live. You can’t . . . you can’t get too attached.”
I still don’t know everything about him. He could have fallen in love with someone from a false universe. Apparently, they are millions. He looks back up at me. Admittedly, I almost wish he didn’t. The way he looks at me makes me feel so inferior, so . . . unloved. His heart, as aforementioned, couldn’t be sweeter, but he can sure make a point. “You’re not spending enough time here. You’re spending too much time in that other world.” He carefully avoids the word ‘fake,’ perhaps for his sake as much as mine. “When it collapses, you’ll have enough ties to the world to pull you down with it. You need to start building a life here, making your reality here.”
I know what he means, but I wish he can completely understand what he’s saying. It feels as if this world where he’s speaking to me from is the one that's fading, and not mine. In fact . . . it is. The colors of the beach begin to wash out, being replaced by teal bathroom doors and white tiles. He grabs me urgently. “You need to get it where you just zone out to the other world, and not this one. You live in this world. Do you hear me? Serena! Serena!”
My pocket is vibrating. I take out my vibrating electronic device, and quickly glance down at it. It’s a text message.
Tie number one.
I look up and with my free hand reach out to touch the man shaking me urgently. I feel the door of my bathroom stall. His grip on my shoulders is slowly loosening, disappearing.
Tie number two.
“Three ties,” he cries softly and hoarsely, from seemingly far away. “Three ties and you’ll be pulled down with the earth when it collapses! Tie yourself to this world, do it now!”
The bathroom door opens and girls immediately begin chattering. I can catch every word of their conversation.
Tie number three.
The world is gone completely--the real one, at least. My hand is still on the bathroom door rather weakly. It's surreal, thinking that a moment ago there was a human being here, talking to me with fear in his voice, trying in all desperation to save me. Shaking slightly, I let my hand slide down to the silver lock and I slowly unlock the door, closing it behind me tightly and swinging my backpack on my back. I glance at the girls before I leave. One is positively glowing. “I didn’t know he’d ask me out,” she gushes gleefully. “This could be the best day of my life.”
I can’t help but smile as I turn and exit. A lot of things in this world is messed up, I admit it. But there’s a lot of joy in such sweet, small, simplistic things.
Three ties is all it takes for me to be erased from existence. But, if I have to be honest, I’d rather live in this world knowing one day it’ll be gone than live in the other worlds only hoping that they’re real. Here I have a life, family, and friends. I have responsibilities.
It’s a lie.
What’s a lie?
Everything’s a lie.
And in full awareness, I believe the lie.
I felt like I could certainly relate to your thoughts. Yet, I would have appreciated a little more philosophical and epistemic aspect to the 'lie' context, like conversing on the meaning of the word 'lie'. And I would change the last sentence to 'I believe 
