I suppose it’s at that very bottom-most level of self
Where the most important things go wrong—
Below the levels where the more-tangible things happen,
Like language and plans and emotions and analysis—
At our very core, where the human will lives,
Often in the shadows, and hiding from the view
Of own awareness in those upper levels.
It’s there, it seems, where so many are unwilling
To let the truth of a matter be the truth.
And I’m not talking about having the will
To imagine how things might be better,
Or to make improvements in the things
About our lives that we can control.
No, I’m talking about the simple lying to self
That almost everyone does on certain matters
Where they know the truth, but would rather
It be something else, and are willing
To lie to themselves, pretending it were so—
Taking refuge in the imagination,
As if that were a real place.
It’s an invasive habit—
Almost sure to get out of hand—
Taking over much more of the mind
Than was ceded to it at first, until
The single compromise has turned into
What is at best for them a dual existence—
Double-minded and unstable—
Two masters rather than one—
Loving the one and hating the other,
And then the other way around—
As if this works for either.
And all this because they
Were unwilling
To bear the discomfort
Of truths they do not like—
Unwilling to wear
The yoke of reality all the time.
