Haven't been able to write in months due to law school. I'm writing this to reassess the importance of writing in my life. That's as clear as it gets (well, law school teaches clarity, directness, having no drama and all the pretentious graceful shit that accompanies writing). There is grace in clarity, beauty in not being pretentious, beauty in being bare, because that is how truth is. "He kissed her without closing his eyes. Then she woke to her mother knocking on her door, telling her to wake up." Facts. Now, after writing novels worth of digests on how people kill each other (how they plan and try to cover up the body of the crime), how families destroy themselves when the wealthy father dies (life tip: accumulate wealth, then spend it all before you die, so that your heirs will not kill over it. Well, leave enough if there are still dependents, but if all of them are self-sustaining, travel the world, start a hobby.), how there is so much money to be made from being in government, I am wondering how is it worth writing again. First thing I can think of is that it's being extremely personal. The type that no one will ever see. This affects me so much because I feel I no longer need to show anyone my works. There no longer is any need to be published. No need to write anything at all. No need for recognition for anyone. You get published in your school literary journal. Cool. Or online, cool. You get an award from your school, get some awards from allegedly prestigious bodies, get into some workshops, and you know how words work in order to make people think about life more, putting it simplistically. Cool. But what is the point? (A writer says this is the point, reflection and then writing about it.) You talk about word theory, image theory, art of all things, then you see how engineers construct buildings, lawyers win big cases, scientists making super drugs or creating synthetic body replacements. You pit your poem against the symmetries used to make the computer you are viewing this piece, and your words will fall. What is the palpable effect of poetry? Of art? I know I am looking at it in a skewed way, some people in the art scene might think, and I am purposely looking at it this way because I know words mean more than they are right now. It's just the practicality of law school getting to me.
Now, we escalate: you get a job, stay happy, stay content. You write about windows showing a faint light at night. You talk to a girl in a coffee shop, and nine years later you are still fucking her. You get some recognition, employee of the month, some awards in your part time writing. Fast forward 40 years, and you say it was all worth it before the touch of her hands slowly leaves you, before your vision slowly turns white. Was it really worth it? Is happiness and contentment the point of life? You are on the rise towards a dream, then happiness comes along and settles you down in a comfortable house and a lovely wife. I'm tempted to go all out caps lock rage in this entry now, but for the sake of decency I'll sum it up like this: "Will you let happiness and contentment stop you? Who the hell wants to settle down when the world is so vast?!" Of course you can always say both can be done, and it's true for some. But not for me. I guess this is how I say that I'll try not to be emotionally invested in anyone. Then at the back of my mind, some voice is telling me: "Just because she's not available, it doesn't mean you have to go all existentialist and shit." I'm just saying we have the whole universe to explore, why chain yourself to happiness? The kind of happiness I mean ends passion and wonder. It's not the discovery-type of happiness, but "It's fine as long as I'm here/with you type." I'll end here. The therapeutic effect of blogging has been felt. I'm happy with writing something normal for once.