Hello.
It’s been quite some time. I possess no intention of staying long, so this post is going to be abnormally lengthy compared to the drivel that I normally post. When you really stop and think about it, all writing, in all forms, is drivel in the broad scheme of things. Opinions vary depending on the times and the people, but in the end, all writing is is merely sequences of words expressing ideas, images, and so forth to the senses. The sensations induced by these words range from the positive to the negative, affecting the reader’s emotional state in a multitude of ways. Fiction, non-fiction, academic textbooks, internet forum posts… no body of text is exempt from the same universal principle: communication.
In our consumption of text for personal enjoyment or intellectual stimulation, we become gluttonous. The Internet has served the gluttony well, substantially adding to the proliferation of text to the masses. However, the gluttony, to this day, has never ended, and the demand for more text shall continue until I am six feet under.
I am a young man of twenty-one years, a lowly community college student whose reach far exceeds his grasp. Yes, I am naïve, or perhaps I was. It is difficult to tell, even at this very moment as I type this on my Microsoft Word screen. The current word count on the document is 231. We have only just begun. The night is still in its infancy.
I had this notion that through my dream of fiction writing, I could conquer my depression and provide proof that I was not worthless. Everyone likes to think of himself or herself as someone of importance, someone special. The reality is that no one really is. I am beginning to reach a point, philosophically, that I am abandoning any expectations that I have, of people, of institutions, even of society. I guess, in one sense, I am being reborn. When we have lofty anticipations of things like success or guaranteed happiness, we set ourselves up to fail. In the end we are all an orchestra on the same sinking ship. We are faced with the inevitability of death, of the idea that our song would play no more.
So fucking what? Play anyways.
