And Yet I Write

Funny how I can write, as I have now for ten minutes, and still reach nothing to write about.  I can play this game over and over again, and one day I will realize that it is not getting any easier.  I am a writer, and as one, am doomed forever without a single concrete idea.  My voice will not change, my originality will hold strong, my passion will burn brighter than a blue star, but you see, as an author, I am doomed to write and write and write and write without a single once of progress.

                For her I am, again, writing without purpose.  I write simple because I must, simple because I wish for a divine savior to release me from my mortal imprisonment.  If only I could rid myself of the physical, could I not then learn and teach so much more than I can now.  But no, it is no destiny of mine to save the world this way.  I am trapped in this mortal body and for now I will have to write as a mortal does, through my hands and onto the page, trying my hardest not to spill too much ink.

                You know what is funny though, what is truly humorous?  I have been writing for five years now at least, six really, and I have nothing to show for it.  I have one “book,” if you can call it that, from 7^th grade that is total s**t; another from last year that turned from good to bad to worse only a month after writing it, and the only plausible solution would be scratching the entire thing and rewriting, which in itself is useless because the idea wasn’t all that great and the only reason for publishing would be to cash in; which of course is no reason to attempt publishing.

                Am I a sound writer?  No.  I feel I am not; yet I write, and I like my writing and others like my writing.  So am I a sound author, perhaps I am better than my works would let me appear.  Then again perhaps I am hopeless and should give up.  Maybe it is all because I am trapped, trapped in this childhood they call education.  I want to go out and investigate the world, see the wonders, make experiences.  Yet I cannot, not for a year, and when that day comes I cannot be sure of my safety.