Reason To Write
Is my
writing all in vain?
Well,
it is true that writing makes my heart beat. But does anyone else really care?
Probably not…
But
does that stop me?
Should
it?
…Yes
– But will it?
If
you see more writing following, you can assume that it didn’t. But let’s analyze
whether or not it should stop me. Then I will decide if it will.
If I
have one, or maybe even two, readers who have read at least one article before without
gagging, then, surely it would be reason enough to go on. But at this point we
are assuming that this isn’t so – and we are probably safe in making this
assumption. Even if we aren’t totally safe in drawing this conclusion that I
have no readers, let’s just do so to make it more fun.
So
now that we (?) have established the fact that I have no readers we are one
step closer to determining whether I should go on or give up right here.
So
maybe it should be assumed that I should’ve already lost my will to go on.
After all what is the sense in a writer writing if a reader isn’t reading what
the writer has been writing in hopes to have readers read what he has written.
Am I right in writing believing that the only reason a writer writes is to have
readers read him? Maybe not in all cases. Because in certain circumstances the
casual consensus is that curtain calls are considered contrary to the
conventional caliber of cases where cheering can cheapen cherished classics.
I
think the main reason I write is for therapy of the soul. Writing focuses my
cosmic illusions of space and the vacuums of the mind into forms none
telepathic, and through sensations in my temples and in ways to guide my
fingers, thus enabling me to control said fingers to place these transmissions
down on paper in the two dimensional world of common folk, enabling them to
somewhat relate to the though processes of a much higher form.
It
would also really be nice to have one or, getting really wild, two readers. I
mean, so what if the whole world could understand the complex workings of an
advanced mind if there is nobody there to read them. Although writing is a form
of self-expression, what good is it if there is nobody there to see my
expressions?
So
strike down that last (and only) reason to write.
Is
there another reason I write that I can dig up from the recesses of my mind?
This should be easy to find because my mind is always on recess.
So as
I brush back the cobwebs to search for other meanings to my methods, I remember
the thing that started me writing in the first place. The local Dime Store was
running a sale, and amidst a table of junk with wrappers torn, and boxes
bruised and faded, I came across a pack of ten pens. Ten Papermates for Fifty
cents. I reached into my pocket to find two quarters, and I knew, from that
moment on, that something cosmic was happening in the fabric of time. The
Universe would never be the same!
With
ten pens sitting on my nightstand I eventually took to making scribbles on
paper to waste some of the ink on hand. But my advanced mind soon grew bored of
the simplistic subtleties of common swirls and masses of stickmen armies.
Circles only went backwards or forwards, and upon completion it was hard to
tell a forward one from a backward one, even though I spent much time
alkalizing them. Stick figures can only have a smile, a frown, or a straight
line across their faces. And their bodies are all skinny. I’ve never seen a fat
stick man. Sure, use a magic marker and you may get one that’s well-built, but
you still would be stretching things to call him fat. A stout stickman is rare.
When you go past the point of stout stickmen you’re getting into abstract art,
and I lose interest and patience.
So
after a few years I grew bored with scribbles. But when I finally reached a
point where I could not tolerate one more scribble nor coordinate one more
stick man, I found that I still had one more pen on hand. Most of the ink from
all the pens was actually still on hand, for I tend to get more ink on my hand
than the paper. But eventually it washes off.
Could
I let this last pen go to waste? Did I waste my hard earned money when I could
have settled for nine pens? Did I waste someone else’s precious time and effort
in creating this pen? Would the manufacturer, whose product was going to waste,
seek personal revenge on me? Would that last, lonely pen throw it’s insides all
over my drawer in frustration? Would I wake one morning dead, the police
finding the pen thrust through my heart? Who would the main suspect be – the
pen, the manufacturer, or my future readers?
I
took that pen, fearing all of the above, and scratched meaningless words onto a
paper in straight lines all the way across it and continued for the whole
length of the page. I called myself a Writer, because I don’t want to be known
as a wrong Uhr.
So
there you have it. That is the reason for my writing. The facts are all in –
now, should I quit or continue? Seeing that my pen is almost out of ink… I
think that it’s time to quit.
Ultimately
the decision comes down, not to a lack of thoughts and subjects, nor to a lack
of readers… but a lack of ink.
Entropy
wins out in the end.
Yes,
this is my last article…
Farwellingly Yours,
รจim
Uhr
P.S. I’m
going to take a trip down to that dime store,
if it’s
still around. I’m bringing fifty-three cents.
