Are We Being Lied To?

All of the details.  Of the cars.  The women.  The guitars.  The lucidity they promise.  The pleasure.

They make us believe that we're not here anymore.  They make us believe that we're part of the inexhaustible center.  In short, that we've attained.  Whatever it is doesn't matter. What matters is all of the indices tattooed on our collective asses, as they are spanked routinely from the hard hitting icons, the pop jungle dominatrixi, and the wet leather of our very own dreams and fantasies.

We self-flagellate so we don't have to face huge open expanses of vacant properties.  I'd rather be catty, outraged, inflexible, and arrogant than bored, placid, dull and uneventful.  Right?

Step right up.  Have I got a life for you.

This is it folks.  Our only life.  Just slow down and think about it for a minute.  Or two.  I'm not advocating complete seriousness in all decision-making, but we should pause when there are things at stake for us later on down the line that we don't know enough about now.  We don't get second chances.  We don't get a second life.  There is no heaven, and there is no actualized dream.

The truth is much more mundane, all the while living as an underbelly to the fantasy.   I'm not saying we shouldn't try, that our lives shouldn't be animated by principles, but they should be virtuous, and not fantasy-laden.

How to tell?

Here's the test.  If you chose to follow virtues, whatever they are, there will be no end to your quest.   If you chose fantasy, the end is close.

If you want to be an asshole, that's easy.