We are fair-weather friends, you and me. You like to show up when it suits you best. When you have no where else to go, you knock on my door. It’s always a dreadful surprise when you show up on my doorstep, holding your book of lies in your hands.
You lick your finger, peer down and turn the pages of deceit. “Hmm, I wonder what story I can put into your mind today,” is what is on your lips. “What can I come up with to twist and torment your mind,” you snarl as you thumb through unprobable scenerios penned down in your wretched book.
But I see you today. I recognize your ways. Your stories are scenes that you play over and over in my mind. You conjure up anything you can think of to rile me, to freeze me, to force me to fight. But your stories are fairytales, myths that have no validity. Your stories are highly unlikely.
I bind you fear! You have no place in the house of my mind. You don’t even have a welcome on my doorstep. I won’t even let you wipe your feet on my doormat. Away with you fear and your book of lies.