"What do you think happens when people invent their own lives?"
"In the sense of creating a reality? How do you mean?"
"I mean, you and I, we drink. Right?"
"Well, yeah. Cheers, by the way. What do you mean?"
"Cheers, it is. I mean, when there isn't enough time to have done all that you want to be doing already, and you don't really like waiting for life to come - what do we do? We invent our lives."
"So, we make believe our victories? Pretend to have lived more than we have?"
"More importantly, we pretend to have suffered more than we have. Life's greatest lessons lie in suffering. So we pretend to have suffered and seen and pained and shelled ourselves. More than we ever could have, in so short a time."
"So everybody's a liar?"
"If you believe it yourself, you're not really lying. True deception, so much like a true high, resides in believing your lies and in your dreams and in your nightmares."
"So, anyway. What happens if we do...invent our own lives?"
"We age. Faster and faster. The more the illusions, the stronger the belief. The more support from all sides, the more the people to sink with. The greater the despondency, the worse the misery, the more true the reality. And so, we age.
We are who we believe we are. The lines take over our faces. The back droops. The spirit dies. Quicker and quicker. Our voices begin to croak. Our memories grow hazier and black-n-whiter without a shadow or a fog or a cause."
"A shade too melodramatic, perhaps?"
"Smoke rises from the lips, blown out of a tortured lung, carrying with it a piece of frivolous, eternal, lost youth. We are brokers, you and I. And we sell short our souls."