a very merry
unbirthday
“Life is a . . . sad piece of buffoonery; because we have in
ourselves, without being able to know why . . . the need to deceive ourselves .
. . by creating a reality (one for each and never the same for all), which from
time to time is discovered to be vain and illusory . . . .” – Luigi Pirandello
Each
of our realities – or the reality belonging to each of us – is an illusion. For
the most part we manage to ignore this, but we’re always at risk of bumping up
against some one, some thing, or some idea that cracks the image we’ve shined together with glitter and a glue gun. We’re no longer walking blithely down the street basking in the
sunshine, whistling a merry tune; we turn to look in a shop window and find
instead of the well-arranged shimmer of things we have to have that we’re
looking at ourselves in a mirror that is cracked and distorted. And someone tiny
but crystal and clear is hovering at our shoulder. We shrug, but he doesn't go away. We turn around, and
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