Truth and the Devil

Sometimes we lie to those we love. Little white lies, spur of the moment whispers that are soon and safely forgotten. Great big lies, like movie productions, with descreet beginnings…rising action…rehearsals! And then, sometimes we think we are making a white lie; a temporary stay of execution for a temporary problem. A temporary problem that overstays its welcome, that squats, molevolent, heavy with forboding, crashing on our figurative couch and eating all our food. Then the white lie cannot be forgotten, instead it is elaborated upon, built up with clumsy carpentry and lopsided pillars, ill-concieved and poorly planned extensions bulging out from what was once a neat, compact little home for our guilty conscience.

Not to disagree with Shinka, but dependence and faith can be very necessary. Perhaps in a perfect world where each person loves and understands one another, there could be complete and open trust. But we live in the real world, don’t we, a darker and more troubled place than Shinka would have you believe.

Dear reader, please, think for a moment. Think of Jim, your neighbor, who hits his kids and never returned your garden shears. Think of Alice, the receptionist at work who wears her thong up above her waistline. Think of everyone you meet every day! These are the assholes that cut you off in traffic! The moron who couldn’t double bag your groceries with a bright, neon reminder and a gun to his head. Think, very, very hard. Do you want these people voting? Do you want THEM to control your future!

I hardly ever write.

As far back as I care to go, I’ve loved stories above all things. Movies, books, games, anything really. I have poured for hours over PnP Sourcebooks, never with intent to play, but intrigued by their deep mythologies. I have played games I hate simpy for the cutscenes, waded through menus and shoddy control schemes desperate for that last scrap of story, constantly searching for any new facet of those miniature worlds. I have read books until the pages yellowed under my fingers and I could skip entire pages because I knew every single word on them, even their placement and formatting. I really do love stories that much. The first of the very few things I have ever stolen, and the only one I ever kept, was a book from school.