LXXX


There’s something seriously lacking here, a kind of emotional gravitas and certain worldliness that would typically be present in a work of literary merit. Something like an experience, life story, general outlook–really anything to provide a shred of credibility for the reader, to give them their money’s worth. At the end of the day, don’t we all want something to relate to? A familiar set of circumstances, a happenstance that numerous demographics can understand, a hardship dealt with and overcome through pluck and grit, you name it. Anything to get a sense of catharsis, a confirmation that life has meaning. But does it really? We like the convenience of relating to the world we presume to know, so we can insinuate our place in it.

There are no magic bullets to be had in this world of grand pleasantries and uncherishable outrages; either you fit the mold or you struggle for all your days to conceive of a new, workable mold that doesn’t rely on sentiment to garner consistent success, creating unobstructed thought as it pumps out originality.

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