"I am unable to provide an alternate."
It has been inevitable since I began. This life, and the book. I cannot recall waiting in the pre life room for my additional go at existence, though I assume something was sorted out by the Gods on an astral plain and I ended up here anyway. No faults, no expectations, just a puddle of determinalist fate.
I absorb dialogue from street corners and bar stools, a parasite of society. Churning the material methodically until I produce a thin film to lay upon the words of my true self. Just enough to distort, not enough to forget. The bile of a dry heave. This nature is not proud, but is admired. Irony.
Abundant amounts of grief have soaked the jovial hope of my youth, diluting the power of essence, polluting my imagination with cruel malice. I suffer in silence, putting up my fronts, dulling the pain with alcohol. It isn't easy, though it doesn't take much effort either.
Life is a path, an EVENT! I hold close and live or I give up and become a statistic. No matter, (this ain't apathy talkin' neither) we all die. Death be not a mystery, nor shall the brief moments of life be spent considering the alternative. The meaning of life is to live life.
Write, for it is my only chance at lasting immortality. If others write of me, I may become a casualty of an historical document, a document that may only present a fraction of your self, or worse yet, discarded. Now, there are plenty of other mediums these days; film, paint, graphic design, that will produce a lasting aesthetic valor of expression for one to implement on the path of remembrance, but writing possesses the tangled words of exact emotion and circumstance. Definitions of topicality are less malleable forms in the specific written word than the critical evaluations of interpretation.
I am aware of the discrepancies presented here. Specifically, that I must produce coherent, logical writing as a means for immortality in the future (and that someone must read it). I admit to being not only a literary hack, but an advocate who condones the necessary parasitic methods to produce a book. Obviously, this is open to the same production of bent impression as the other methods of expression. Just think of the books dissecting Shakespeare, the theories that he didn't even write it at all. Blasphemy! Who does thou know more than William himself? No one, and his words remain. Remain they will, which brings me to my conclusion:
- The meaning of my life is to live and write a story which reflects my soul and love veiled by a general emotion experienced by any.
- To gain immortality my words must remain an accurate depiction of my soul and love beyond alternative interpretation.
The dilemma I've experienced is that I don't even care for the immortality or the book, that I never asked for this responsibility in the first place and that no matter the effort, my aspirations will eventually become worn and cloudy without my guard and that the ending will inevitably be incomplete and unhappy. Editors don't like this one bit and demand alternatives.
"Impossible!", I shouted at them. "all that is left is an unhappy ending. Don't you see? It's inevitable."
To which the editors replied,
"Just change it."