To writing we bring our everything, but the words illuminate more than what we bring. We enter a new ideology, thrust into an affair of perceptions and sensations. Words bathe us in the experience of sensation, enlarging citizens with consciousness. Even resenters are entertained.
We are all Pagans in the liberal spaciousness of literacy. Primal ambivalents internalizing the hero-villain. Asking which is pious and patriotic, and whether hypocrisy is as substantive as we imagine it so.
Inviting kindly modifiers like little goodwill trees, in which our only pleasure is the imagining. We cannot solve the puzzle of our representation, so we delve back in, before atrocity can prevent us through her shrewdness. One would hope that the words we find are persuading enough to lead us to the next abyss.
But this is illusory. Both the writer and the Reader know it. The bond between theme is intimately elusive. No one has sway over the pen. It guides us all.
Beyond the injured self of ego, we take on the burden of language's mystery. We raise our fists at it in beautiful defiant delight. If the beauty of language is found in our reaction to it, language itself is ugly. Battered and truncated by our fashionable ideologies, caricatures of our own design.
Not even Shakespeare was a Shakespeare, which explains his adherence to the word "nothing". But cheer up! All is not lost! Literature's characters are unmatched by how real we make them.
Ha!
Says the mind of the Reader!
Who takes an art virtually unlimited, and offers us a second nature - and we "listen" - to the perplexed triad. Heeding mirrors with many voices, who neither act nor speak for nature. Pragmatically there is no difference, though you can hear the sun set between the two.
But words impart meaning, attributing values to our ideas of self and to other persons. Certainly more or less a Parisian spectator sport, in which Voltaire is judge and jury.
And therein we find the why of writing.
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