The trouble with being me is that everything is meaningful. That might sounds fun, a kind of mystical place where each thing I posses and every moment I experience is suffused with a kind of mystical potential that diffuses slowly into the fabric of my existence each time I reach out and touch them. This is not, in fact, the case. The case is that every moment is, in some way or another, a moral referrendum on how I’m living my life. Writing, the most embattled and in some ways important, piece of my life, is no different except in its extreme.
