Mournful Bleeting

She and I do not live in the same world. There is the universe of reason, of logic and goals and from here to there the shortest distance is a straight line so take this path and here's a brilliant electric lamp so that you do not lose the way. And all the while as she's talking I wish I could be in those galaxies, small worlds, pockets of space and time, where magic exists and the best paths are the ones you chance upon and true love lights upon the surface of the good sweet earth like falling stars. There I might be completely happy. There I could simply...be.

I used to ask myself a lot of the time what the meaning of it all was - perhaps I was talking about what I did in school that day, the revolving of the planets, the footsteps of yesterday, life itself. I ask myself that question still.
I've come to realize that I don't enjoy writing. It's difficult. Frequently unrewarding. Most certainly not worth the time and effort it takes to salvage floating scraps of truth (of which there are discouragingly few) in the sea of chaos in my mind. If I had to write for a television show, a weekly cartoon, anything meant purely for entertainment, anything meant for an audience to peruse for pleasure, I would drive myself either to suicide or madness. I write because I have something that needs be said. Perhaps people will listen. Perhaps not. Words are, in the end, meant to be read by others; my only mechanism in the machine is to make them easy for people to understand. I wouldn't be able to write if I knew nobody would pick my work up. So why do I write? Praise brings some pleasure to me, it is true, but my own awkwardness and forced humility taint it considerably. Why do I trouble myself with this burden? Why do I walk this unpredictable, unforgiving, tortuous path?
All my works are born from yearning. A desire to hide from truth while revealing a deeper one. I could never write light fiction for long; I thrive in darkness, misery, struggle, because those are what touch the core of my essence, and those are what I believe make the world turn. My life is already consumed by the pursuit of beauty and truth, however they may elude me. If I stopped trying, I would forget myself. So I continue to write, and hope my words are heard by at least the ones who matter, and that they are understood. And I continue to dream of a day when I can see a glimmer of what it means to be human, and whisper that secret in the ear of the good blue earth, and die a child of tomorrow's dawn.