[Mildly NSFW] I Like It More When You Tell Me Lies

I was watching my son playing with his toys when he began to sing to them as he danced about the room telling the world a nonsense song that seemed to hold the secret of life when I realized that sometimes the most important thing about being alive isn't that you've found the thing that gives your entire life meaning but that you've found the thing that gives you purpose for the time you're doing it. Then I began to write in this little black book that I like to pretend is a secret tomb of wisdom that future generations will one day come across and use as the key to solving all their meaningless problems - but then I'm a blogger and that means that I'm often given to delusions of grandeur. 

Anyway I'm sitting there writing in my book about where I see my life going while my son screams at Mickey Mouse when it occurs to me that I've been writing more in that book lately than posting on the the blog. The book is really nice, if I must be honest with you. Its cover is made of leather bound over a thick cardboard and the pages smell like incense because I have no shame and don't mind being reminded that life is fleeting. But the ink inside, where I've scribbled away my days, shifts from a deep India ink black to a burnt umber. My words are going from left to right, in straight lines, because in spite of the fact that I like to pretend that I'm an iconoclast I actually want to read the fucking thing one day and know that I wasn't just masturbating on the page.

There it is though, the possibility that what I've been working on is nothing more than me deluding myself into believing that I've come up with something brilliant. So I sat there wondering if that's what I had done when my son climbed up into my lap and asked me to open my mouth so he could check to see if I was sick. 

Life's really great right now. I just got to stop worrying with all the bullshit.