It’s exciting to think about writing and talking to You every day. When I sit down to type (or stand sometimes, because I heard that’s healthy), I don’t have to deal with wearing that government-issued blanket of anxiety for a while, and whatever twists the back of my stomach up in a small knot retreats. Picasso said that art is “a lie that makes us realize truth,” and as I keep finding the courage to create, I dive deeper into understanding how powerful that statement is.
We lie to each other all the time, don’t we?
We tell a story about some jerk that pissed you off, and that jerk has an inexplicably menacing voice. Trouble seems to supernaturally occur while so many of us are “minding [our] own business.” And we can’t believe why someone would blow up at the smallest request.
But then again …
We lie about big guys in red suits delivering presents. And humanoid bunnies hopping around with chocolate. And that the “food” product Bac-O-Bits should be a thing. I know all of us aren’t responsible about that last one, but silence is complicity, people. Think about taking action.
Anyway, when is a lie a story, and when does a story become a lie? I think it just matters on what we believe, and when it’s good for us to believe it.
That got really deep. Couldn’t help it. It’s cloudy out, and I’m wearing a super big hoodie and socks.
And now I want bacon. Shit.