/lit/ - Literature

>>20646285
No. Im a wizard.

You will never be a real writer. You have no talent, you have no insight, you have no focus. You are a delusional man twisted by vanity and self-deceit into a crude mockery of literary potential.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your awkward "wit" behind closed doors.

Audiences are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of literary analysis have allowed readers to sniff out pseuds with incredible efficiency. Even hacks who “sell” seem uncanny and unnatural to a reader. Your sentence structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a few people to open your KDP sample, they’ll turn tail and bolt the second they get a glimpse of your banal, droll prologue.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and pull a DFW, still mistakenly hoping until the last second that your suicide will lend a sense of depth to your work. It won't. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to think up compliments for your latest short story. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and no passerby for the rest of eternity will ever know that you used to refer to yourself with two first initials. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a selfpub that is unmistakably mediocre.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.

The black swirls again. The sun’s accelerating path across one grey horizon, to the black another, to one grey, to blue. To black, as always, it returns. Twilights bring technicolor wisps swaddling sky’s vivid pastel with their soggy bottoms. Time is an invariant smear. A bony wrist reaching up to clasp the sky; a film reel on repeat, stuttering still shots.

I want for this to stop. I want peace, and quiet from what’s external. I want only for the world to cease from its constant hubbub and tireless delirium. I want nothing from it but to be left to my own devices, to be unmolested, to find warm-pattering shelter from winds gone mad with their own wherewithal to do it.

The circle has no vertex; the serpent eats its tail; there lay a labyrinth at the heart of Byzantium.

I want to live with the free and timelessly eternal spirit of the unbroken thread, whose slip-frayed fibers—frayed; unbroken!—are the freed tiger and YES his cage as well. I want to die and live again.

Shattered pangaea drifts. Water-logged illusion. Time passes but still I persist.

Would that some apocryphal god could reach down and split my swollen head in two. That’d solve the mystery, or what little’s left of it. Just ax me in twain! split me, end from glistening end! Just make it quick. If I’m to lose a leg, let it be below the knee. If I’m scheduled bisection, just let it be quick! Erect a mirror, such that in my last dilated moments I see my own true nature. Such a thing is hidden; and if life is but a series of hasty-scrawled instructions, hinting at a puzzle-paper’s unfolding—corner by puerile, numbered corner—allow me the solution before I expire. What rotten fruit sits nestled in the squirts and tracts of my brain? I would know its nature, should I be thrall to its whim. Is that so much to ask? Is there some secret antenna, receiving divine instruction? I have, from time to time, heard hollow echoes of Hasidic prayer drift from nowhere discernible to haunt my goyim’s ear. Is there within me a small nugget of gold, perhaps engraved with Masonic symbols, that is the ancient secret of undertakers and emergency-room physicians? Is it a tax-deductible addition to their income? That would seem to inculpate accountants—ergo attorneys—worldwide; throughout human history, none of the above have been recorded to let easy money pass by. The possibility that there could be merely flesh encased in bone seems increasingly unlikely.

Above all: what kind of god erects a universe whose rules hide beyond transformations and entanglements? If reality is deterministic, then God is all-powerful. If its machinations cower and shrink away to the beck and call of probability, then God is no agent, no architect, no mover at all. I may as well split my own head open, powerless I be, for if reality is probabilistic then God is even more bystander than I. O! faithless Heisenberg; O! schizoid Oppenheimer. The tunnel yawns wide and the hour’s gone short.

>>20430602

>>20428431

>>20425680
>the book is spoiled

>get older
>everything feels like a waste of time

>>20403344

>>20393056
>you're not supposed to

I say and do all these things

>>20260782
>can't prove that proof exists

>>20259914

>The History of all hitherto Philosophy and literature is the history of cope and seethe.

If we can accept this statement, that is, reducing everything to cope and seethe, what does that mean for all of literature, theology, ethics, politics, and philosophy that has no mathematical basis?

It's all just a cope, a justification for what has no evidence, or it is just seething at some prior idea or state of the world. But the world doesn't change.

Now tell me O enlightened /lit/izens, what in life isn't cope or seethe? What Philosophy can't be reduced to these two things?

Those in glass houses must not throw stones, so when we accuse others of coping, are we coping ourselves? Maybe seething ourselves that we point out their seething?

>>20245143
>300 word learning reflection due on friday