I'll write because I believe I can. I believe in me regardless of anyone else's opinion.
Don't peddle the same pervasive lies that linger, lost and longing for someone to listen. I won't pay attention. My purpose is in the opposite direction.
Writing is what I do, my chosen craft. I expect only for you to respect that. Even if you don't understand why I do it or what it is to be a writer, it defines me. Creativity's connection is imperative. The essence calls me daily to drink of the font and quench a thirst for sanguine certainty. There is hope as long as there is paper and pen. It's enough to catch glimpse and glimmer, containing the magical moment of dreams delivered to destinations beyond a meager mind's willingness to embrace or comprehend.
It doesn't need to make sense to you. I prefer wrting to any other endeavor, not because I can't do anything else, but I won't. Playing your version of the game sickened my soul in a way that left me exhausted, nearly broken. Battered but not beaten, I have struggled back to where I once knelt before the source of vision, from whence every imagining issues.
Certainly, I could do other things, just as I did for years. I've decided not to waste time anymore. My efforts for the pittance anyone pays sapped not only my energy but also my will to endure. I can't be like you. I don't envy you anything of the material life you chose. All your toys and trinkets merely distract you from the truth.
I'm a dreamer, the crazy one. A n'er-do-well, bound to fail, I'm the fool you pity. Accept, as I have, the role I play. I'm the harbinger of the forgotten innocence of faith in self that once you also had. Upon the freshness of your life's familiarity with your nascent soul, you wrote poetry and prose for a while. Kids stuff, I know, but do you ever wonder where that sojourn might have led?
Give criticism a rest. Your cynicism is not becoming. As Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything but the value of nothing'. I'll bet you don't even know who he is or the immortality of his wealth of work.
There is nothing I want from anyone, save for the space and time to complete my chosen tasks. I can go then, knowing I did my best. This imperfect, mundane mockery of mindless misery we call reality lacks the truth. It contains all deception. It's best to leave the lies where they lay.
Your path is not diligence but drudgery. Serving the interest of slick-pitch salespeople hawking their perverted visions of prurient perfection is your way. It sickens me that you sold your soul. You once had delightful dreams. We'd spend hours exploring the whimsical wonders of places only our unfettered minds could explore.
Practical, is what you decided to become. Where has it brought you? A multiple mortgaged meandering mess, working to keep up with the interest payments. What do you have to show for it? Only the stress in your life persists. If you lose your all-important job, you'll be homeless soon enough or become a broken beggar, just as you see me.
That's not how I am. There was a time when I listened. I thought in my pride-starved despair that maybe you were right. Just as you suggested, I played the game. Everything they told me to do, I did and more. Were they ever happy? How could they be? They were too busy chasing the elusive next great opportunity. They had no time to realize or appreciate those who contributed to their success.
Life's not fair. That is what you taught me. In that alone you are totally right. The world wasn't designed with fairness in mind. Hard work counts for little anymore, if it ever counted for anything. The success you seek is a facade. Arriving there, you will discover the reality of an attractive but vacuous shell. All the failure and adversity you overcome on your way to arrive, amounts to nothing but the falseness of the surrogate dreams you were sold.
My way is different. I see your example and know the wrongness. It inspires me to write about you, create a character pretty much like you with your drive and determination. It will be fiction, of course. Even if I am exactly right about you and the outcome of your professional life, that will be your out in disbelieving my vision. It's only my imagination, after all. Surely they would never do to you what they did to me.
Until then, I'll write. We'll see what comes of it, won't we?
Don't peddle the same pervasive lies that linger, lost and longing for someone to listen. I won't pay attention. My purpose is in the opposite direction.
Writing is what I do, my chosen craft. I expect only for you to respect that. Even if you don't understand why I do it or what it is to be a writer, it defines me. Creativity's connection is imperative. The essence calls me daily to drink of the font and quench a thirst for sanguine certainty. There is hope as long as there is paper and pen. It's enough to catch glimpse and glimmer, containing the magical moment of dreams delivered to destinations beyond a meager mind's willingness to embrace or comprehend.
It doesn't need to make sense to you. I prefer wrting to any other endeavor, not because I can't do anything else, but I won't. Playing your version of the game sickened my soul in a way that left me exhausted, nearly broken. Battered but not beaten, I have struggled back to where I once knelt before the source of vision, from whence every imagining issues.
Certainly, I could do other things, just as I did for years. I've decided not to waste time anymore. My efforts for the pittance anyone pays sapped not only my energy but also my will to endure. I can't be like you. I don't envy you anything of the material life you chose. All your toys and trinkets merely distract you from the truth.
I'm a dreamer, the crazy one. A n'er-do-well, bound to fail, I'm the fool you pity. Accept, as I have, the role I play. I'm the harbinger of the forgotten innocence of faith in self that once you also had. Upon the freshness of your life's familiarity with your nascent soul, you wrote poetry and prose for a while. Kids stuff, I know, but do you ever wonder where that sojourn might have led?
Give criticism a rest. Your cynicism is not becoming. As Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything but the value of nothing'. I'll bet you don't even know who he is or the immortality of his wealth of work.
There is nothing I want from anyone, save for the space and time to complete my chosen tasks. I can go then, knowing I did my best. This imperfect, mundane mockery of mindless misery we call reality lacks the truth. It contains all deception. It's best to leave the lies where they lay.
Your path is not diligence but drudgery. Serving the interest of slick-pitch salespeople hawking their perverted visions of prurient perfection is your way. It sickens me that you sold your soul. You once had delightful dreams. We'd spend hours exploring the whimsical wonders of places only our unfettered minds could explore.
Practical, is what you decided to become. Where has it brought you? A multiple mortgaged meandering mess, working to keep up with the interest payments. What do you have to show for it? Only the stress in your life persists. If you lose your all-important job, you'll be homeless soon enough or become a broken beggar, just as you see me.
That's not how I am. There was a time when I listened. I thought in my pride-starved despair that maybe you were right. Just as you suggested, I played the game. Everything they told me to do, I did and more. Were they ever happy? How could they be? They were too busy chasing the elusive next great opportunity. They had no time to realize or appreciate those who contributed to their success.
Life's not fair. That is what you taught me. In that alone you are totally right. The world wasn't designed with fairness in mind. Hard work counts for little anymore, if it ever counted for anything. The success you seek is a facade. Arriving there, you will discover the reality of an attractive but vacuous shell. All the failure and adversity you overcome on your way to arrive, amounts to nothing but the falseness of the surrogate dreams you were sold.
My way is different. I see your example and know the wrongness. It inspires me to write about you, create a character pretty much like you with your drive and determination. It will be fiction, of course. Even if I am exactly right about you and the outcome of your professional life, that will be your out in disbelieving my vision. It's only my imagination, after all. Surely they would never do to you what they did to me.
Until then, I'll write. We'll see what comes of it, won't we?
A response to those who advise a more practical life.
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