DescriptionAn essay.
MessageThe end is never the end but it is the end.
ImageWRTN
For what it's worth:
Before I gave my speech for Class President, someone asked me what it was going to be like.
"Bombastic."
And I meant it. I was going to say the most pompous, high-falutin, wordy, and unmeaningful words of my life. Not because I didn't care. But because I felt that it was my tone that mattered. It was the looks, the sounds—not the substance.
And unfortunately, that sums up a good portion of what I thought my life should be.
The words didn't matter. The quality didn't matter. The creativity didn't matter. The answer didn't matter.
Only the goal. Just the destination, not the journey.
WRTN, at first, was not an offspring of this idea. It was something far more simple, far purer than this dehumanizing and completely ignorant take on the world. But the infection of my mind spread to the heart of this site, and soon, it too became this larger-than-life idea, one diluted with a love of grandeur over true greatness.
I lost my art. I lost my touch. I made the occasional into the regular, and the soul into a machine.
Every whisper had a megaphone held out in front of it.
Every piece was just content.
And I regret that.
So I got some antibiotics. I fucking killed that sickness.
Does that mean I need to enter a coffin?
No! I'm not dead, silly!
But this site is.
Before I gave my speech for Class President, someone asked me what it was going to be like.
"Bombastic."
And I meant it. I was going to say the most pompous, high-falutin, wordy, and unmeaningful words of my life. Not because I didn't care. But because I felt that it was my tone that mattered. It was the looks, the sounds—not the substance.
And unfortunately, that sums up a good portion of what I thought my life should be.
The words didn't matter. The quality didn't matter. The creativity didn't matter. The answer didn't matter.
Only the goal. Just the destination, not the journey.
WRTN, at first, was not an offspring of this idea. It was something far more simple, far purer than this dehumanizing and completely ignorant take on the world. But the infection of my mind spread to the heart of this site, and soon, it too became this larger-than-life idea, one diluted with a love of grandeur over true greatness.
I lost my art. I lost my touch. I made the occasional into the regular, and the soul into a machine.
Every whisper had a megaphone held out in front of it.
Every piece was just content.
And I regret that.
So I got some antibiotics. I fucking killed that sickness.
Does that mean I need to enter a coffin?
No! I'm not dead, silly!
But this site is.
