There is an intersection where extreme narcissism meets extreme gullibility. It is not located in the Twilight Zone. It’s here in your city, your town, your village, your house, your tent. Like many mass movements it started off with good intentions and promptly turned into a racket. The hawkers at this intersection cry out: “Here’s your salvation, ladies and gents! Cheap, fast and guaran-freaking-teed!” The intersection is teeming with pedestrians, but they never collide, amazing since each walker is holding up a mirror before his or her face. Each day hundreds are run down because when the street sign changes to “Do not cross,” they have it on solid authority that the sign is lying and that they -- and only they -- know the real crossing story. There is talk of another, even better intersection somewhere, but despite paying a fortune for books, DVDS and workshops, no one’s ever found it.
It is a desolate place with not a single thought perturbing its pretty mind, this intersection.
Let’s not meet there, my love.