Cheery. Oh!

Joy isn’t fiction. It sure doesn’t feel like it’s in a container. I’m never faking it.

Lately it’s been commented about me: ‘he believes everything he reads.’ Imagine! But I do make a deliberate effort to suspend my prejudices. I participate as fully as possible in any mindset the book in front of me puts forward. When it’s complicated – as consciousness, intelligence, and cognition sort of are – when it’s complicated I’m guilty of pontificating from other authors’ points of view. I guess I too fully absorb. Maybe I sound too genuine.

The thing is, we are all identities unmoored. We don’t understand ourselves. We don’t know how we came to be. Most of the time, I’ll venture, we don’t care. I’ve taken an interest because I think there’s a plausible opening here for the masses to be enthralled by a new Explanation of Things. It’s possible we’ll be offered a general redefinition of the meaning of life – and I’m wondering what it might be.

Meantime, if you see me – I bet I’ll still make you laugh.

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