So what’s the fear? That you’re a derivative intellect. Critical but sterile. Unable to create. You work without making anything. There’s always something to say and nothing that needs to be said.
I want to get better. It may not matter but at least I’ll know I’ve lived. I’ll have proof of my progress.
A record of your existence. Even if no one reads it.
Early humans already thought to the end of everything. That’s what made them human.
All you can do is retrace that move. Endlessly circling the drain with pen in hand, macbook air if you’re a man of today. Returning again and again to where thinking begins and ends.
But I want to say something new. I don’t want to return; I want to take off.
First you’ll copy others and then you’ll copy yourself. Every writer has his subject. And a style. Every writer writes about one or two things in the same way every time.
So if people read you it’s because they know what you’re going to say. And how you’ll say it. And they either like it or they don’t, and if they don’t like it, they like not liking it. They don’t need anything else.
People enjoy feeling angry and upset. They run on bile. When people deny themselves the pleasure of contempt, they end up hating themselves.
Okay, so I’ll be an anonymous outlet for anger.
Yes, you can also make people happy by making them miserable. We need enemies. Threats on the horizon. A reason to round people up. But it probably won’t come to that. You’re obscure enough to get away with anything.
That moment when, high on dense, edible marijuana, penis in hand, you realize you’re a coward at heart. You’ll write forever without consequence. You have no greater hope than avoiding pain.
Afraid of suffering and irrelevance. Both are guaranteed. But you probably matter more to others than you matter to yourself.
You might finally find courage in that.