What lie do you tell yourself to get through the week?
Monday morning, I tell myself a tale:
That people mean the words they send by mail,
That “Let’s catch up soon!” isn’t just politeness,
That colleagues share my passion, not just brightness
Of their own advancement, climbing up the ladder –
But wait, what if their dreams actually matter?
Tuesday’s lie arrives in softer hues:
That everyone’s not simply playing ruse,
That kindness might exist without a motive,
That generosity can be emotive –
Though probably they’re angling for something later…
Unless? Perhaps? Could strangers be creator
Of goodness just because? How curious, that.
Wednesday whispers: “Give them benefit of doubt!”
(My cynical brain responds with: “Figure out
The angle first.”) But curiosity’s a beast
That won’t lie down – it interrupts at least
Three times an hour, asking: “What if you’re wrong?
What if the world’s less mercenary, more song?”
By Thursday I’m exhausted from the fight
Between my distrust and my pure delight
In wondering why that barista smiled at me –
Was it for tips? Or simple courtesy?
Or joy? (Imagine! Joy without condition!)
My cynicism calls this superstition.
Friday’s fib’s the biggest one of all:
That next week I won’t build this same tall wall,
That I’ll believe in human goodness purely,
Trust motivations, see intentions surely –
But curiosity just grins and winks:
“Or maybe, love, investigate what makes them tick?”
The weekend comes, my lies can finally rest.
I don’t know which belief serves me the best:
To doubt the world or wonder at its workings,
To spot the game or marvel at its quirkings –
So here’s my truth beneath the weekly fiction:
I’m gloriously trapped between contradiction.
Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | Prompt by Eric Foltin
Vox Meditantis 
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