The Question In My Sanity

As I spoke with my therapist this last week, I was suddenly confronted with a “Truth”.  This cannot, by my pointed use of quotations marks, be considered any sort of truth, capitalised or not.  At least not without some serious contemplation first.  And now that the last few sentences have been rife with C-words, I shall continue.

Last week I wrote of my struggle with whether I write towards profit or if I write towards meaning.  In my mind, these are exclusive to each other.  And yet I’ve been going to therapy for the better part of a year (two?) to learn the opposite of that.  The dialetic exists regardless; I should be willing to accept it.  Doubt the default, as it were.

In the fore of my mind, I know this dialetic to be true, that they can both be at once and in the same way.  Yet in my gut, it feels so false.  Part of this, I’m certain is simply training.  When you talk of being a writer, no one says that you can write meaningful things and sell it.  The message over and over again is that you either write trash to sell to the masses or you write what you want to write and hope to gather a niche (implied: very small) audience.

Yet the contemporary authors I admire have not fallen prey to this “Rule of Writing”.  John Green is, I feel, the perfect example of this.  He wrote meaningful books, that touched deep inside of his readers and has become a lovely success with these same stories.

As far as I can tell, I do not seek fame.  I do not seek riches untold. I suppose I seek recognition for my craft, but, more than that…  More than that… The works I most admire, the ones to which I aspire, are those that transported me.  They are esoteric and weird, they make just as much nonsense as sense.

I want to be seen for who and what I am, this peculiar creature characterised by fantastical ideas and ideals, and I want others to see that beautiful, hidden part of themselves reflected back to them.  Meaning within our own madnesses.

Traveller, validity is not defined merely by its clarity.  Each complicated knot within your breast creates another piece of your own beautiful puzzle.  Walk your path for it belongs solely to you.

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