The young girl stares at her pallid shadow in the mirror, questioning her motives to create and write, or rather, the motives of others who insist on dissuading her. “Be something useful, like a lawyer or a doctor. What are you doing wasting your time on that?” But what use is a lawyer if they cannot control the unspoken higher Truths that govern human soul and connection. What use is a doctor if they cannot fix a grieving heart or pluck the sadness from eyes. People make art and pure soul in the form of artistic creation to escape the monotony of becoming the Everyman, or it manifests as self-diagnosed therapy. As the foundations of this perverted society keep sinking into a cesspool of greed and self-obsession and spunk, the few left endure, albeit kneeling, choking on their own fault, are survived by ambition. The poverty-stricken masses are starved of Truth and Meaning that no amount of paper wealth could answer for. Degrees and paper are not forever but philosophy and thought and knowledge is and the young girl knows this. She knows she is simply a temporary chunk of biodegradable mass ((just like all the doctors and lawyers) just like everything else on this temporary Earth), and the human body can only withstand that race to the finish line for so long before the natural selection slows her weary mind and heart to follow. So the young girl, exhausted and completely wary of the tiger-world that preys on her bird-soul, just wants to create things somewhat more permanent than herself, that will remain in the ethereal world of the stories of humanity (for (y)ears to come).


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