An Ironic Examination of
Wasteful Literature,
Intention, and Taste

Why does anyone waste their entire life writing down something nobody will ever read? Why does anyone seek remembrance? Why does anyone face the struggles of this, a life unfulfilled? Some seek change and chance, but for this a person must be willing to find fault in all that surrounds them. Some seek beauty in poetic rhymes that hold no one truth, but for this their minds must drift as do their words. How can anyone be truly happy without knowing that what they write is the truth of thought, the proof of their existence, and the undying emotion and comprehension they feel when they look at the greatest beauty around them: the light of life discovered with age?

There’s no beauty in simplicity. There’s only simplicity found at the base of a great complex mystery, which natural or not, is absolutely beautiful. The entirety of a story may be as simple as two words in a sentence or the twist of thought in an element of poetry. But no true simplicity exists as that in nature, where thought is obsolete and only the senses may capture its mystery. As beautiful as imagery is, the lack of emotion is as drab as an object. It’s stiff and not even admirable of a proper name.

Then names themselves cannot capture the truth of a person nor their mystery nor their identity. And as a story is never just a rendering of events (at least any worthy story) and no emotion can be provoked in everyone from the reading of the same passage, so is writing like life. Unpredictable and wondrous to at least a single person who knows of nothing better than of what you’ve written.

So, no one may judge what is written. It can only be summarized in events and in intention, and if the story drifts from there does it lose anything at all. This is, of course, if the writer knows anything about their own taste in writing and what they would want to read themselves, or if they read what they wrote and found themselves seeing what they intend come true, a true writer may be found.

If only some of us bothered to throw out some of our stories after they read how truly lacking they are, perhaps only the confident and proper writer would remain. But for this, clarity of the mind as to the intent behind it need be clear. This, in truth, never is. Unless we seek never to share it. Then writing can be, and will be, nothing more than simply and beautifully perfect.