Ponder, Writers.

The world intrudes. The author laments. It forces and insinuates itself, but nothing interferes so much in the modern world like the internet. In truth it is a blessing and curse, to use a cliché. A writer is nothing without the power of A.D.D. The writer is a funnel, drawn to every detail, every revelation on the human spirit and the fate of the universe. The author ponders that fate of everything, only to abandon it for  a lover, the bend of an arm, the shape of a buttocks, the curve of a breast or the suppleness of a thigh. Make no mistake, writers, it was the internet, like a proverbial whore, which offered you the world to pour your soul as never before, but stole your readers to banality and headlines. there is, however, salvation in solitude, in wresting back the hours to ponder and solve each of life’s greatest questions via a crafted narrative or a character in a story. the world as never before, strives to rob the world of the ponderer, but it was the ponderer who unveiled the soul, dragging it from the claws of religion and the morality junkies into the light where it might be dissected and laid bare. That, that is the domain, the high fortress needed to be defended by the writer. Steal back that time. Be selfish. be not a journalist. Journalists write for the moment. You write for eternity. Be…be a writer, with all the romance, perversion, all the belligerence and piety of someone endeavoring to uncover ultimate truths and then flings them like hot coals and icy cold water into the faces of passionless humanity. You are passion. You are protest. You are question…


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