Don't Despair Too Much If

We Have Fallen Into This Very Mean Description Of Humanity. Naturalism In Fiction Is Too Reductive In Its Definition Of Human Beings.

We Disliked The Rigours Of Existence, The Unfulfilled Longings, The Enshrined Injustices Of The World, The Labyrinths Of Love, The Ignorance Of Parents, The Fact Of Dying, And The Amazing Indifference Of The Living In The Midst Of The Simple Beauties Of The Universe. We Feared The Heartlessness Of Human Beings, All Of Whom Are Born Blind, Few Of Whom Ever Learn To See.

We Plan Our Lives According To A Dream That Came To Us In Our Childhood, And We Find That Life Alters Our Plans. And Yet, At The End, From A Rare Height, We Also See That Our Dream Was Our Fate. It's Just That Providence Had Other Ideas As To How We Would Get There. Destiny Plans A Different Route, Or Turns The Dream Around, As If It Were A Riddle, And Fulfills The Dream In Ways We Couldn't Have Expected.

The Fact Of Storytelling Hints At A Fundamental Human Unease, Hints At Human Imperfection. Where There Is Perfection There Is No Story To Tell.

It May Be That What You Could Be Haunts You. It Is Real. It Is A Weight You Have To Carry Around. Each Failure To Become, To Be, Is A Weight. Each State You Could Inhabit Is A Burden As Heavy As Any Physical Weight, But More So, Because It Weighs On Your Soul. It Is The Ghost Of Your Possibilities Hanging Around Your Neck, An Invisible Albatros, Potentials Unknowingly Murdered.