Write and Transcend

"It's admirable how those writers managed to write and to transcend. Time makes their words (which were sometimes not entirely their own, but are there, coined, written, reproduced) like omens of the past. Like lessons that only a few have understood, even though many encountered them at some point in their lives. But it's also incredible how, despite all of them and all those books and readings, often mandatory in many of the world's educational systems where stupidity and malice reign today, it wasn't understood. Nor is it understood what was based on all of that, to distinguish good from evil: only then does it seem that strength, power, and opportunity (if not opportunism) exist. Therefore, that common sense, that kindness, cannot be considered the majority view. In the end, only a few reasons and feelings are necessary for the force of that morality to save humanity itself. But for how long? How many times? It's no longer about hope.  He does not express a lay. He said that his preference for Marc de Bourgogne is exceptional, more than for Cognac, but he does not consider Armagnac to be less safe. It is also false to claim that logging a tragedy will always be more difficult simply because it involves a single victim, like him, or thousands of people (if not millions) in the rest of the named occidental civilization. He was merely more of an expatriate—an outsider, unlike others who find themselves in times when warriors tend to unite in strange ways. Although violent and bloody, such events are well known to be practically invisible. In essence, they are considered equally important as the sexual relationships of the rich and famous, televised realities, and sporting events that drive betting. Isn't all of that exceptional for the end times?  As the bombs fell and all that polluting dust reached them amidst their mountain walls, where everything was supposed to be alright, he was just one of those who could only write and try to transcend. - To write and to transcend, he said to himself, as the bombs fell and all that pollution dust reached them amidst their mountain walls, where everything was supposed to be alright, he was just one of those who could only write and try to transcend. Write and transcend, he told himself, taking a drink as Franz Liszt drifted through his small apartment, the scent of Marc accompanying him, in a winter that, while not nuclear (yet), was warm enough to be as disappointing as current human civilization. But for that, you need readers, and yes, critics and people who understand. Or those who try to do more than just obey. I remained silent. He took a drink, a little sadly. I waited a while, long enough for one of the songs to pause. He sighed and continued writing. 

It's unbelievable how the vassal's depravity defies explanation. Not even survival, greed, or ambition can be put into words. There's no way to find the right words to describe such stupidity. Those who try to justify the unjustifiable descend into idiocy, revealing their lack of dignity and, ultimately, highlighting their opportunism and selfishness. Their actions, their words, their fake smiles and manufactured tears, make one doubt how to face and confront them, especially when they no longer need hypocrisy, because the masks have already fallen. Nor is there any way that the force of intellect, of reason, can confront them. They are so weak that when defeated, they easily play the victim, easily take advantage of the brave but isolated and resourceful, and are also easily discarded. For when the masks fall, they are no longer needed, not even to justify the unjustifiable. So, how is it possible to confront the mean and stupid person?. Some call for the power of ideas. But perhaps it is the violence of reason that creates a contradiction.  Years later, I understood that I should keep quiet and not say everything I thought, even if I was right. And that's one of the most irrational things I've faced all these years, but then what to do? Write it down.  And for years, even while writing it, I thought everything was resolved, but... The reader? At twelve, I learned that it's a lie for a writer to say they write for themselves; no, one writes for someone. And yes, she's right when, upon reading my work, she told me I wrote for someone. But it's not just one person; it's always different people. Sometimes I aspire to write for everyone, sometimes only for one person. From the traitor to the unmentionable one. From the one I still love to the one from whom I learned that I shouldn't reveal everything. And from her, who now prefers not to know anything about me, because I make her suffer (according to her), and in that suffering, I tell myself, as the storm begins again, I didn't remain silent, because no kind of suffering is justified by desire. Not even by masochism.

Languages ​​will surely change, and much will be studied about what was written before and what is written now. While many things are uncertain, it's at least possible that the changes won't necessarily be the ones we need, although optimism would suggest otherwise, and that all of this will contribute to a better civilization. Is our current one the worst? I don't think so, precisely because of the confrontation and the possibility of rebellion, through words and reading itself, the creation of something from ideas, from words (again), and not from destruction, despite the violence. She spent the afternoon in a tranquility and stillness she hadn't felt in a long time, after days of crying so much. Finally, she stopped thinking about him without having to resort to some casual lover, as she had in the past. But he hadn't been cruel, and so, beyond desiring him (as she had the others), she loved him. And he knew it. In a way, he loved her too and accepted her as she was, but they weren't destined to be together; they had been part of the journey. Or at least that's how it seemed to be written in the songs of those lovers at the end of time. He was asleep. And although he had thought about her for years, he didn't regret the cruel truth. Even though he often thought that silence is a response that accompanies cruelty.

In any case, beyond writing and transcending, what's needed is communication. That same reading and interaction. It is not right (and for some it might be considered unfair) to remain silent and telepathically believe that ideas are being shared, when more than ever, faced with the noise of terror and stupidity, the fear and silence of the ignorant, the voices of those who can confront them need to be heard. Not necessarily as shouts, but even as songs. At that point, the focus shifts from impact to transcendence, and influence, especially that which is merely distraction, loses the power that has only fostered mediocrity and apathy, leading to exhaustion. Even if it sells. It's time, at this point, to move on to other things, to rebel as humanity. Sleep was already overtaking him, and he was grateful for it after sleepless nights and annoying mornings of waking. He had chosen silence after a noisy Friday, the previous one. It was a time of mixed feelings and emotions, but above all, a time to see what needed to be seen, to be sure that he preferred the mountains, the snow in the morning, to glide freely, to ride in freedom.  The latter was difficult to explain, and he didn't try. He simply lived it. And although he would have liked to share it, in reality, he embraced his solitude and selfishness in a world of traitors and pettiness. He soon fell asleep without thinking about it, only about the joy of being surrounded by the cold and snow the following morning."