Yours sincerely

Early morning prose. One way of seeing it. Might not make it any easier, but it gives an explanation. For; just as one ordeal is at last finished, other ones may emerge. There are always things to struggle with. Worries to handle. Problems to be taken care of. Always a bumpy road, this existence. And we wouldn't have it any different. Because we're humans, and part of being human is facing trouble and get through it. If you don't, that's fate. If you do, that's luck. There's a sense of meaning pervading everything. There is hope. There must be. Otherwise we couldn't live. Survival comes to the fittest, and unhappiness is destructive. One has got to fight it. If you don't, you give up the very essence of what is our purpose in life. Oh, and it's so tempting. To close one's eyes. Not having to care anymore. It would be better. But it's not always supposed to be good. Or easy. It's supposed to challenge you, make you wonder. Why. How. Wherefore, really, do we do it. I understand. I'm not strong. I used to think I could be. But that's not the point, either, we just have to deal with our weaknesses and flaws. Sometimes injustice strikes harder than it should. Destiny is unkind. It tests you. Like you detest it. An ever-lasting power struggle. We don't necessarily win. But we simply can't give up. Mustn't. That would be against our nature, however ridiculously hard our battle seems. Despite the fears. We don't surrender. We don't die before we die and if we can help it. Unless, of course, we make a different choice. That might be fate, too, at least fatal. Closely connected. Constantly. The fight continues, with other contestants. At some melancholy moments, I think humanity is inhumane. I think we all got it wrong. We don't know our goals. We misunderstood the purpose, and we strive for a wrong cause. Later, I find that natural, also. It's too huge to be fully comprehended. One ought to ride along and forget about the design of the journey. One ought not to care so much. That's the hardest part of all. The thinking. The worrying about the worrying. The words. And the endings. The major difficulty; to come to an end. And be content, for a while, for some time, to see the light, the point, the outline. Or just don't give a damn. I finally made my choice.

What I believe. More of it. Like, not everyone should be writing books. Or rather, be allowed to publish their books. Supermodels, TV hosts, silly people (not necessarily a general definition concerning the former and previously mentioned), limelight dreamers, desperately desiring some attention, fallen stars and fading heroines. Oh no. Words are magical and should be employed accordingly. Words are too important to be wasted on scribblings by people to whom the words are merely tools for own profits. Increased credibility. Not any sense of poesy there; not any appropriate respect or appreciation. Humility; all it takes, a bit of humble appreciation. Would make the choices easier, too, less difficult to determine whose intentions are valid and whose are only profit-related. Determine who has a cause and who is a charlatan. Writing books is not supposed to be piece of cake and, sticking with the food metaphors, it certainly isn't just anyone's cup of tea. That is my (presumably) provocative statement. There should be guidelines, or certain demands, for when a writer is a public communicator and not a word wizard only. Maybe not even so, maybe just a user (or abuser) of the basic writing. Like I said, a tool. And it's terribly wrong. Requirements other than celebrity status (or whatever worse) should be put forward, motives other than the cold and money-related should be the basis for editors when they consider. This is not the case, of course, and might never be. We rely on businesses; everything and everyone can and must be sold. Be sellable. We must be able to promote ourselves and have something to offer, that yet others can promote when they stake their lots on us, when they make severe decisions or sacrifices on our behalf, that's what they claim, that's the reasons they give. I repeat. Something to offer. Something that fits with the trends and the tendencies. And - I heard them say I wasn't adaptable enough. Again. That I couldn't adjust myself properly. Work on my shortcomings and the lackings, that was all it'd take. Still, I defied their requests. I said I wasn't willing. Goddamnit, I complicate things, why couldn't I for once please them on their own terms? But - BUT! - I can't! Because I need to feel something, and I need to be content. I need to provoke something in me, and in the ones whom I address. I won't hand in pieces which are constructed according to the doctrines and precepts of these others, with whom I do not agree but to whose system I must (that is: should, but don't) consent. I won't do that to myself. Although, I'm not saying my critics were heavily mistaken - that their opinions shouldn't be heard. Nor am I saying that everyone can write. On the contrary, few people actually can. But the words of those who value words the most, and honestly claim to have a purpose with what they produce, should be taken into account. And furthermore considered; thoroughly. I always come back to this same argument, my most prominent, that differing thoughts and the art of deviating from others, not following in line like blindfolded cattle, but instead opposing the narrow-minded crowds, all this should be highly regarded. And thus, the writing of those who try to convey some sense and meaning through their very writing, not only through what they put down in words, should get the chance to appear in print, on paper. Similarly, their papers should be looked upon as meaningfull. Not better, not perfect, not worse, not imperfect. Just different. And valuable. There are voices out there who aren't heard when they ought to be. There are thoughts out there, significant thoughts, which are kept secret. Hidden from the world. All the while we rejoice in the choir of those who offer nothing; see-through, shimmering, self-centred, ignorant, indifferent letters of black on white and periods to symbolize a finishing. Dots. Numbers. Formulas. Bollocks. Why am I being slightly flippant? Because I am angry. And afraid. Simultaneously. People won't really have to think anymore, they can just agree! And next you know, we've lost. Complete agreement will be our last and most severe failure. Dissent is a nice quality. Yet, I'm not complaining of the existence of non-poetic 'stating the truth'. I'm rather complaining of its solitary existence. Words for meaning's sake only, to be accurate, can prove useful - but I'm complaining because it's all we seem to want. And everything else, everyone who dares bring up new ideas and solutions, are silenced. Undermined. Depreciated. Not given a chance. They're not the ones who write books these days. They're the voices whose message is dead. For which I am sorry. I am awfully sorry. On mine and their behalf. I do hope we are one, for it is their company I behold as the greatest. It is amongst them I yearn to exist, and it is their community of shared, new visions I yearn to take part in. Not as a pompous fool, but as a creator who can live in agreement with herself and not have to blame herself for inadaptability and stubborness. I want to be content! I'm tired of having to emphasize this everytime I encounter someone who is set to respond to my works! It's the same, old story. The followers of the flock come in a flock. They're overwhelming. And, I say once more, they are wrong. Fin.