I've been in this strange mood lately where I don't want to write. Some call it writer's block, I call it depression, but either way, I've been reading more lately. I just finished an unauthorized biography about a man who sold his life as a lie.
I have always had a certain fascination with liars. Why the front? What about you isn't good enough that you feel you have to put on the costume of somebody else just to make it through the day? I guess we're not all built to observe rather than speak, to ruminate in quiet. That's all I want to do most of the time. That, and to understand why people are the way they are—why they convince themselves of certain things and not others. These questions will, more than likely, never be answered, but that won't keep me from asking.
So many are on a quest to be right. Someone should write about it.
The Pattern Has Changed
We Are the Same
Zigzagging Toward the Light