I could write

I could write about emptiness, about sorrow and anger. I could slowly create and destroy characters whose lives seem perfect, people you like and want to see succeed, and then piece by piece disillusion you and tear their fragile little world apart. That's reality isn't it? It is reality that things that seem perfect on the outside are truly, slowly, rotting on the inside because of what it took to create them. Isn't it? Maybe.

It's possible that the sunset I saw last night is not as beautiful to other eyes as it is to mine. It is possible that the people I see around me are not as interesting and divinely unique as I have imagined them to be. It is even possible that each and every one of them is driven solely by the drive to procreate because that is their ultimate purpose in life, and if they don't then what meaning has their life had? Maybe that's true.

I don't think so though. We are driven by something in us. We feel a need to see the divine, which is innate in our being. We feel a need to understand and analyze and explain to the point that we don't even know what is truth and what is mere hypothesis, mere theory. We, as a people and a humanity, are seeking to find a truth, a universal and uniting truth that will in some way give us all meaning and purpose. It is as if in some way by unlocking the mysteries of the universe we will somehow discover our own meaning in this world. Why do we try so hard? Why do we presume so much, and yet continue to be blind, continue to hide our eyes so that we understand so little? It is pure arrogance to suppose that in a vast universe of creation we can be the only thing that is here, but that does not rule out the possibility of a divine force. Simply because we are not its singular focus would not make us insignificant. Perhaps it means we are incredibly significant because we find this need to try to discover, because we are a species and a world of variety and beauty.

I write because I feel moved in my soul, in the very depths of my being, with every inch of who and what I am. I am a creative force, an outlet of the divine to the world, and perhaps my purpose is to create words and to portray the beauty that is as I have seen it. On the other hand, I could just be being presumptuous. Perhaps I have no purpose and I am merely and arrogant mortal. But then again... I could write about the hideousness of life. I could create beautiful pictures and then slowly tear them down one shred at a time, but I don't think that I will. And while sometimes my writings are not always cheerful, I would like to think that I always find some beauty, even in my defeats.