Every story that needs to be told has already been told. And now we're telling the same things over and over again, in different words, in different colours.
Where do I fit in? Do I have a story to tell? Does anybody want to listen? My ideas are cliched, my tone amateurish. I read what I've written and wince at myself.
Yet I need to put words down. I get joy out of seeing them there, little black squiggles on white, little bits of my soul that I've squeezed out and lined up.
Maybe that's enough, at the end of the day. But not at the end of the life. Surely not?
2 comments:
it was keynes who said- in the long run we are all dead.
in that way, nothing matters, unless you really believe in a thousand incarnations and post life etc...
but otherwise at the end of life? who cares how the scales will tilt at the end of life, since the reason for balance will already be gone? its the today which matters?
s
"And now we're telling the same things over and over again, in different words, in different colours."
Isn't that the point? Every feeling, every thought, every impulse anyone has ever felt has already been felt by a thousand people before them. What makes life worth reading about (and indeed worth writing about) is how those things are different for YOU!
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