Like the majority of human beings I am a consummate liar, a skill I practice regularly and graphically. The majority of my falsehoods remain hidden, for the only regular recipient of my deception is myself. In all honesty I have not the slightest notion of my true nature or inner driving force.
We all exist in a land of illusion, pretense, make-believe, preferring to swallow the outlandish tales we weave so diligently than accept the much less interesting and vital reality. There are no finite truths, only half-truths, carefully contrived adaptions of happenstances, confirming, explaining, elucidating whatever reality momentarily suits a particular time and purpose, delivering a desired or expected outcome, conclusion.
The script to the autobiographical movie of me existence is filled with a multitude of challenges that have to be overcome, mountains conquered, continents explored, oceans swam. ‘Tis necessarily a triumph, an epic, historic, a parade of the most acceptable fiction, related most self-effacingly.