The dark side of human nature, the hypocritical posturing of empathy and goodwill while secretly harboring anger and resentments derived from a stew of the Seven Deadly Sins. Even good deeds have a self-aggrandizing aspect—social esteem, feelings of self-righteousness, maybe score an entry stamp at heaven’s gate.
But it never really feels good. It can’t escape the inner voice chortling heh-heh-heh, reminding us that our thinly disguised fraudulence is part of the struggle to stay alive and thrive, yet so difficult to accept that we do so in the septic tank of survival.
But then a kiss from a spouse or a dopey pet or a child’s hug becomes respite from the gloom of desperation. They remind us that we are both—angels as well as devils—and that there must be paths to transcend the muck. So we search, we do our best, we take love where we find it and accept what we are…miners with dirty hands and coal-blacked faces searching for diamonds.
With such thoughts in mind, the noir crime writer sits down at the keyboard, opens a blank page, and writes something like, “It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in,” or, “I was as hollow and empty as the space between stars.”