I subject myself. To all kinds of whimsical thoughts. All in the name of ascertaining some semblance
of truth. Yes. Could be. That I am much better off. By lying to myself. And
actually believing my lies. I suspect. That’s
how most people get through life. By becoming proficient liars. By embellishing the truth. Face it. The truth can hurt. More often than
not. But still, I persist. In telling the truth. When I’d be much better off.
As a bold-faced liar. Maybe that’s why I dabble. In writing fiction. It’s
considered creative. And respectable.
Entertaining, too. But still, I’m bothered. By thoughts that come out of
nowhere. Utter fabrications. Commonly called whimsical lies. --Jim Broede
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