Let’s face it you’re a fucking smarty pants. You read blogs, probably listen to podcasts, and read at least two nonfiction books a year, but you buy like ten. I am willing to bet you also write, make art, and enjoy stimulating conversations. At least that is how I imagine you to be.
You don’t read this blog to get better at life. You read it because it is kinda stimulating and it gives you something to think about, it entertains you. It is noncommittal, it’s the one night stand that you think about years down the road. Don’t feel bad if it is true, this blog for me is a mistress, she is my distraction from the work I want to do, I should do. But that is what kind of relationship we have. I write some random-ish shit and you think about it. Most of the time it is about how to live and at other times it is about being an artist. But every time it is a sincere out reaching from me to you to fucking live.
The truth. The truth for both of us is this is intellectual entertainment. Writing it and reading it is its own pleasure, as masochistic as it seems. We like it. We like the reading and pondering, we like the writing to be understood, we like to use our minds. It is to us living life for a moment at a higher level. Because the truth is we don’t always get to talk about being an artist- creative- or starting something that normal people don’t do. All in all this is a small moment in time we take a break and reflect on something that could possibly change the trajectory of our lives, but more than less, likely, set us up for having a thoughtful day, which in today’s society is rare.
Well, me and my next glass of wine have plans, so I gotta go.