“Stories may well be lies, but they are good lies that say true things, and which can sometimes pay the rent.”
― Neil Gaiman
That quote has swirled in my mind ever since I read it early last week. Eddying and flowing, it picked up old thoughts and conceptions, tossing them about like playthings, shaking loose their cobwebby respectedness, their longstanding honor of establishment. And, as I sit here, eating a late lunch of Justin’s Hazelnut Chocolate nut butter by the spoonful, I can’t remember a single one of them. That’ll teach me to let life sweep me so far into frenzied activity that I can’t reach the keyboard.
But the beauty of that paradox—lies that tell the truth, often in ways far more powerful than our own stories, our own experiences—follows me still. It sheds its particularly-colored beam on my thoughts, illuminating and lending color.