Tell me Sweet Little Lies.
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.