Tempokai

  Without a lie, there is no truth.

  Like the old philosophers said thousands of years ago, "All men are liars." Or was it Socrates? The point is, we're all liars. But not every liar is a storyteller. Some people can't tell stories to save their lives.

  I'd they could. Then we wouldn't have books and movies and TV shows about psychopaths like Dexter or Silence of the Lambs. We wouldn't need psychologists like Freud or Jung because we'd know why they did what they did. Why some people kill? It would be as simple as knowing that they had an inferiority complex, or maybe they were abused when they were young, or perhaps their parents didn't love them enough, etc., ad nauseam.

  It all boils to human imperfection. And perfectionism has nothing to do with it. Perfectionists aren't better than other people; they just want to make sure things are done right, so they spend more time doing it themselves instead of delegating tasks to others who may or may not get the job done. They could even lie to make something look "perfect" in order to avoid being caught out. Perfectionism doesn't mean honesty. If you don't believe me, ask a psychologist. I'm pretty sure he'll back me up on this one.

  Now if only I knew how to tell my story without lying.

  I'm a liar, but I'm also a writer. So I guess that makes me... a writer-liar.

  But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.

  ***

  The first thing you need to understand about me is that I've always been a loner.

  Even as a kid, I never really pyed with other children very much. I used that time to read instead. When I was twelve, I got interested in science fiction, especially Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov. My parents bought me a typewriter for Christmas. I started writing short stories about space aliens and robots.

  They were sloppy, incoherent, and filled with typos and misspellings. I remember one story where a robot had to take care of a baby alien from another pnet, which made sense considering that I was twelve. There was also a story called "A Walk Among the Stars," where two astronauts nded on Mars, met Martians, and went on a picnic with them. That st part wasn't true; I just needed to fill pages.

  Anyway, by age sixteen, I wanted to become a professional writer. My father thought I should go into business administration. Which was fine by me, but oh boy, I didn't see what was coming. Business administration meant taking csses during school hours. At night. On top of homework. I couldn't handle it.

  But I persisted. I took the "fake it till you make it" philosophy and ran with it. I became good at making excuses, finding loopholes, and maniputing situations until they worked out in my favor. This approach turned me into quite the charmer. Girls liked me, teachers loved me, and my friends couldn't wait to hang out with me again after school.

  But I was a liar. Not just any kind of liar. A writerly liar. One day, while I was working on a project for English css (which consisted mostly of writing fake journal entries), I came across a quote attributed to Henry David Thoreau: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."

  This sounded cool. I tried it out for size. So I wrote about everything that happened around me. Everything. Even though I lived alone in a small apartment in Osaka, I spent most of my days wandering around the city. I stopped eating meat, stopped drinking alcohol, and started walking everywhere. Sometimes I walked to Tokyo, sometimes Kyoto, sometimes Nara, sometimes Okayama.

  Then I began writing a journal about my experiences, adding fictional details to spice up the narrative. By the end of the year, I had written over forty journals, each containing between ten and fifteen thousand words. And since I wrote nothing personal, I had no trouble convincing my teacher to let me turn them into a book. She told everyone she knew I was writing a memoir.

  By then I was eighteen years old, and I had graduated from high school. No one ever suspected that I was a fraud, and my reputation grew. Everyone loved hearing stories about my life in Japan, especially the ones involving sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, and violence. I'd show up drunk before dinner parties and sit around the table telling wild tales until I passed out. The guests loved it, and so did my parents.

  But I lied. I faked it all. I didn't drink, smoke, or use drugs. But I had lots of sex, often with multiple partners. But it was so boring! I hated having sex, and when I found someone willing to have sex with me, I usually ended up running away screaming. But I still convinced people I was a badass rebel. I even tried smoking hashish once, just to see what all the fuss was about. It tasted terrible, gave me horrible hallucinations, and made me feel sick to my stomach. After that, I swore off all mind-altering substances.

  My lies continued throughout college. I graduated with honors, thanks to my clever faking of test scores and transcripts. I joined an exclusive club known as the Ivy League. But none of that was real. I don't know why I bothered lying. Maybe I hoped that someday I could leave the world behind, find some quiet pce to write, and finally achieve the success I deserved. Or maybe I was afraid that I wouldn't be accepted anywhere else.

  Whatever the reason, I kept right on lying. For almost three decades now.

  ***

  At thirty-five years old, I had achieved every goal I could imagine.

  I finally retired.

  It only took me twenty years to get there, but I finally quit my job. I sold my house in Los Angeles, put most of my money in savings accounts, and moved back to Japan. I returned to Osaka, this time with no pns to return.

  As soon as I arrived, I bought a tiny studio apartment near Kita Umeda station. It cost five million yen per month, but I didn't care. The view was nice enough. Every morning I looked out the window and saw the skyscraper buildings surrounding the train tracks. In the evenings, I watched trains come and go.

  The apartment building was old, built in the early twentieth century. It somehow survived two world wars, and had been standing there long before the war against America. Most of the other tenants were elderly people who stayed there out of nostalgia. They called themselves "old souls," which seemed fitting.

  My neighbors never spoke to me, nor did I speak to them. They were rich enough to not notice me. Rich enough to not need anyone. Rich enough to be invisible.

  We were both liars. Me pretending that I belonged here; them, pretending that they weren't lonely.

  I was happy with my decision. My new neighborhood was full of young couples and families with children, and I fit right in. There was no longer a single person who might recognize me. I was safe from my past. The past of full of lies.

  For the first month after moving into the apartment, I did little. I spent most of my time reading books, watching movies, and going to karaoke. I wasn't looking for love, and I certainly didn't want to meet another woman. I have kids that already grown up, and I couldn't picture myself spending time with their wives. Besides, I had nothing to offer anyone anymore. All I wanted was peace. To spend the rest of my life sitting alone in my room, staring at the windows of passing trains while drinking cheap beer and smoking cigarettes.

  And one day, I had an epiphany. The idea for a novel.

  A novel about my childhood. About the things I thought were true when I was younger.

  About how I used to believe in myself, and believed I was special. And how I eventually realized I was a fool. A lying fool.

  After a few weeks, I started writing my novel.

  ***

  "There are two types of people in the world: those who can tell you where they were born, and those who cannot."

  I muttered to myself. It was a stupid quote I read somewhere.

  But I liked it, so I wrote it down in my notebook.

  I'm not sure if I actually heard the words spoken by a famous writer or philosopher. Probably not. I probably just dreamed about it.

  "There is no new thing under the sun. Everything has happened before, and everything will happen again. You can try to pretend otherwise, but eventually, you'll realize you're wrong."

  Another quote I found on the internet. Again, probably something I read online. Now this is more profound.

  "Life isn't fair, and neither am I."

  This was something I said often in the past, especially during my university days. Even though I was smart enough to get into the best school in America, I still felt like I was destined for failure. I felt like an actor performing on stage. No matter what I tried, I always fell short of expectations. When I graduated from college, I knew I would fail someday. That I would disappoint someone. Everyone expected too much of me.

  But I succeeded. By metric ton of luck, I got a job as a software engineer in Silicon Valley, and then I became a millionaire entrepreneur. At least, that's what everyone told me.

  So why did I feel so empty inside? Why did I feel so sad and depressed?

  Why did I drink too much alcohol every night, smoke too many cigarettes, and eat too much junk food?

  I needed answers. So I wrote a novel. It will be about my life, but hidden behind with countless yers of a fantasy elements. Just like how I pretended to be someone else in the real world, I could also create a false reality within the pages of my book. I could embrace the truth of my life by making up a story.

  I sat back and closed my eyes. I pictured myself as a young boy, sitting on the floor of my room, surrounded by piles of paper, and hundreds of pens and pencils scattered around him. He was miserable; he had countless expectations, and he was afraid of disappointing others. But he was also determined. His future depended on his ability to create a good story.

  He put his head in his hands and exhaled. Then he looked straight ahead and whispered, "Yes, yes. This will work out. Yes! I can do this!"

  The image disappeared, and the darkness took its pce.

  ***

  The next day, I woke up early and drank coffee alone in my kitchen. It was bitter, yet sweet, just like my life.

  Then I stood up and opened my ptop. After some time, I finally started typing.

  I didn't know where I should start. So I reminisce about the past, and began writing about my memories. I started with kindergarten. Back then, I had lots of friends, and we pyed together all day long. We fought over toys and crayons.

  Ah yes, that story. Let's adapt to the fantasy world and call them magical creatures instead. Like dragons, unicorns, and wizards. Yeah, that sounds better than talking about bullying and teasing.

  "All children are idiots. They have nothing but their own selfishness, and they don't care about anything except themselves. How could they possibly understand what it means to love another person?"

  I wasn't a child anymore, but I remembered what I thought when I was five years old. I probably exaggerated my feelings at that age, but now I want to explore those ideas further. Maybe it's because I've been drinking too much coffee, but my thoughts are becoming increasingly philosophical.

  ***

  Chapter 1. The beginnings.

  In the nds far away from here, there once existed a kingdom called Lohmar. It was a prosperous country, full of wealth and culture. Many kings ruled over the nd, each one stronger than the previous. Yet, despite all these changes, the kingdom remained united.

  There lived a boy named Ludwig who grew up among such riches and power. A boy with blue hair, pale skin, and deep dark eyes. His parents were merchants who traveled the kingdoms, trading goods between towns. Their travels brought them to Lohmar, where they settled in the city of Sierck.

  Ludwig had grown up without ever having any enemies. As the only son, he had plenty of servants to look after him. His father taught him how to fight, while his mother taught him how to speak proper manners.

  He was a genius, and expectations rested heavily upon him. And so, he grew up with a sense of responsibility towards others. He wanted to protect the kingdom.

  A few months ter, Ludwig entered the Academy. There, he studied hard under the guidance of wise masters. But he couldn't keep up, so he lied. First it was small things, little white lies. But soon his lies became bigger, darker, and more complex. Soon he was lying to himself and hiding his true intentions behind words.

  Soon after that, Ludwig met a girl. Her name was Anna, and she was beautiful. She wore expensive clothes, and her beauty made other girls jealous. When they talked, they both felt comfortable.

  They liked each other. They even kissed. But they never confessed. Instead, they kept it a secret. That way, nobody would get hurt.

  As the years passed, they continued their friendship. He was now gging, and he lied again. He said he loved her. And she pretended to believe him.

  That year, Ludwig graduated from the Academy. He received high marks, and everyone praised him for his intelligence. In fact, he was the brightest student to graduate in recent history.

  But Ludwig knew his grades came through cheating. So he hid his results from his family.

  Still, he received an invitation to study abroad. His parents did not approve of his choice, but they eventually gave in. He left the kingdom and moved to the neighboring country.

  For the first time in his life, he had no responsibilities. He was free.

  At night, he wrote stories in his journal. He told himself that he was creating fiction, but really he was trying to figure out how to tell a story. He tried to make his characters as real as possible, but they always turned into caricatures.

  After a year of studying abroad, he returned home. Now he was older, wiser, and more experienced. But to keep his facade, he still kept his grades low. No one noticed. At least until now…

  ***

  I'm almost done with chapter one.

  Let's see, where should I go from here? Oh yeah, Ludwig's parents found out. They weren't angry or upset. They supported him. After all, he had succeeded, just like they hoped.

  His cssmates congratuted him, but he didn't know why they cared. All they cared about was winning.

  And so Ludwig went on, following the same pattern: lying to himself, lying to others, and lying to himself some more. He repeated this process every single day. Every hour, if need be.

  One day, Ludwig saw someone he recognized. It was Anna. They walked together and sat down by the river. She told him everything. About how she had fallen in love with him, and how she had lost control of herself.

  She was crying. He could hear her heart beating and feel her body trembling. He reached out to hug her.

  Suddenly, she pulled back and ran off.

  When Ludwig realized what had happened, he changed his ways. This time, he would hide nothing.

  It took a long time, but finally Ludwig's lies unraveled. The truth was revealed, and the consequences followed shortly after.

  Anna broke up with him, saying she had been tricked.

  His friends abandoned him. Even his teachers stopped talking to him.

  He had lost everyone.

  ***

  "Fuck..."

  I got too excited. Now my hands are shaking.

  What am I doing?

  Why am I making up stories? Why do I have to write books? What do I want to accomplish?

  Nothing, apparently. I wrote this to understand what could've happened if I changed. I've been stuck in the past for so long, I don't know who I am anymore.

  If I were honest, I'd say I'm scared. I can't let myself fall into the same trap again.

  If I ever tell the truth like Ludwig did, my world will shatter.

  ***

  "Dreams are fickle. You can't depend on them."

  —Miyamoto Hiroaki (author)

  ***

  In the end, I scrapped the entire novel. I couldn't finish it.

  So I felt I need to change some things. Maybe I'll give it another shot ter. For now, though, I think I'll focus on something else.

  Maybe I'll try to write about the past. Maybe I'll write a story about myself.