The issue about writing from one's own perspective is that, unless the situation of not only the characters but the writers themselves are clearly outlined do things start to make sense. Historical writers are often quoted out of context, as well as certain qords and statements from eras past being seen as overly offensive or inaccurate. Which they might have been in the modern or even only in the last few years, but certainly would not have been inflammatory for their time. The issue of a piece of work being taken as is instead of contextualising it would mean that something is rejected or accepted purely on the basis of "merit" as determined by the person or audience in question.

This is why Literature at the high school or university level often results in overly sensitive students and extremely jaded professors. One cannot, I repeat, cannot simply react reflexively to a piece of work-much less a single statement or page taken out of context. Only fools react; those that can reign in that initial moment of indignation, anger or righteousness will find there are many lessons and morals behind every single word put down-given the validity and coherence of the writer's work, of course. Being politically correct or a champion of social justice does not do anyone good, and I say this from the perspective of a young person who finds many like me that are sick and tired of this loud but small group of crusaders. Take note that such practitioners not only attack viciously, but that such logic is often contradictory and people end up attacking others on the same crusade that happen to slip up for even a moment.

A writer is often examined by the merit of their work, and only their work, unless the person is question is thrust into the spotlight. Neil Gaiman and Frank Herbert, the former still very prolific amongst the writing community, have known quotes and opinions on writing styles and their own work. And only once their family backgrounds and legacies are examined can people truly appreciate the viewpoints of the characters and writers, both seperately and as a whole. Therefore a writer can indeed have a biased view of certain races-say, a british writer in the 18th to 19th centuries writing an account of his travels to various parts of the world-but the account and all its depictions can be used as an accurate retelling of people in that same era. Stories of any vintage can be used, so long as there is adequate knowledge of the morals and information available at the time. So one can understand a white author writing from a position of class and race superiority until as recently as the 90s, but cannot forgive one living perhaps in a more liberal region regardless of where they are in the world.

Nationalities are another issue which can be rather off-putting, but rather less so I feel compared to race. I say this despite the rise of nationalist populists that are not only rising in power but are claiming positions of high office in many countries, but I would feel that most on this website do not subscribe to the notion of taking their country back to some ill-defined period where things were "great", as the ubiquitous quote says. A British writer poking fun at the French would not have much issue with British viewers, as they share similar opinions of their neighbours across the Channel; French audiences might take offense if the language used is crass enough. But I feel that those that either toe the line or make their stance clear on what they are attempting to convey is admirable, more so than the pandering we see today, both in film and in literature.

A writer that does not take a stand merely serves to midly interest; it is in controversy or in daring that boundaries are pushed and new insights into society are made available to the population at large. This is why being impartial or 'fair' is impossible, and why critics should always be careful as said above. Crusading for a misguided cause is as bad as doing nothing at all, as it casts all who actually want to see social change maligned in favour of those who shout the loudest, not those that have the most valid and effective ways of affecting social change.

Putting oneself out on a platform be it in traditional literature or online stories in the form of articles, opinion pieces or even sites like these means that people will read and invariable comment and form their own opinions about the work, and indirectly about the writer. It is why most authors prefer to be at least mostly done with their work if not fully done before seeking validation through a publication house or other people's opinions. Of course this is given the writer even has a decent grasp of the English language (not how educated but how well they can write, comparable to a published stories' prose and diction) and that the storyline is strong enough to carry the meaning and intent of the writer itself. That is why even though the barriers to writing have been lowered through the proliferation of devices such as ipads, smartphones and electronic devices with keypads to enter information, it has become akin to my metahpor with the social justice warriors, in which those that shout the loudest or appeal to the largest audience get the most attention, whether they deserve it or not.

Society at large should not and cannot define what a writer can or should write, as most of it is either in transition or stuck in the past. Think of it as the entire spectrum of ages and differing opinions trying to define the newest "phase" of life. Therefore one should be receptive given certain filters such as quality of the work and given adequate context, to slow down before conclusions or condemnations are handed or screamed out online or in real life.

I woke.

Dreaming, falling

Floating?

Anger at happiness

Despair in joy

Nonsensical logic wrote this

My child

So many have come, many more have gone

Scaled, winged, horned

You were so fragile

Perhaps that is why you hurt me most

Carving out your space in me

Bending my rules to your will

And so we suffer; you and I

Only the fringes feel the pain

No life support can bring me back

Regret is fleeting-ah, my child

The best and worst I ever had

Once Upon A Time

We smiled

Laughed

Tried

Slept

Cried

Wept;

Died

(OnceUpon A Time)

There is only so much a song can promise

So much ones eyes can bear

So much the world bothers waiting

So much to be aware

be careful, then for what you seek

Not happiness; oh no

Satisfaction is what sustains me

I hope it does for you also

He woke

Looked around

The meadow stared back

Butterflies; leaves, sunlight filtering through

The breeze gently ruffled the boy's fringe as it passed through

Almost..like...

He rose

Memories hazy, vision clear

Her image got clearer as the time passed squatting, hand in stream

Then; pain. It represented Mother all along

...sight of her, silhouette in the light of fading day.

A month; ten months, a hundred and twenty. Ten glorious years it had been since our fastening ceremony. Unconventional, that-but I thought it appropriate. My life had been nothing but unusual, highs and lows so far in between an echocardiagram would have been accurate. Piss poor one moment, flying high the next. Such was the life of a trader on the stock market, in his proverbial hole in the wall. There had been noone by my side during those long, stressful hours, the clock ticking, seconds crawling by as I sat riveted to the screen. Six monitors shone dully back, their night muted by the black background of the various stocks and their readouts. I would decide for moments to step out or leave, only to immediately rush back, such was the pressure on my shoulders. Sean was in for a cool million-Andrew one hundred thousand. I myself kept what I had earned in the value of stocks, some other 5 backers trusting me and my sweaty fingers to make the correct sale and judgement. It was thus that that chapter continues, but merely in the background.

I fell for her

More like fell on her, but close enough.

No, literally.

A story for another day

And inspiration for more 

A home

A patch of quiet

A rainy day in

A sunny day out

A run that never seems to end

A gym session that is effective and efficient

A book that takes you into its world

A novel written without frustration

A job or vocation, done with passion

A task given; small and yet indicating trust

A meal with friends

A meal eaten alone

A welcome hug, touch, handshake

A day not happy but satisfying

A day without smiles, yet feeling joy

A day of paradoxes

A day of productivity

A day of relaxation-retirement making it permanent

But then again;

There's nothing better than

Acceptance

Not contentment, not happiness, not joy

But acceptance

We pass them by daily

Spectacles, messy hair, an uncertain smile

Tall, short, average of height

They blur into the background, invisible

She is not the one with the coy smile

The one dressed in a crop top or a tight shirt

Short pants for you to leer at

Yoga pants to oogle

This girl is sensible

She does not show what she has to the world

Call it double standards, call it pragmatism

A girl that has her priorities in check

Seeking for a lfie beyond that of the office

Fighting for her future instead of wasting it;

Ignoring feminism, rightly so

A concept so far warped it could be called equality

She walks quietly, softly

Unnoticed to all but myself

Watching her quietly, eyes soft

Unguarded as much as she is

Fully aware that her walls are quick to shut tight once more

View her expression; see it tighten

Sour as yet another guy brushes past, too close for comfort

I cannot do anything

It is not my responsibility

And yet the urge to reach out, to help persists

I fight it till she leaves

Praying for her future

Praying for her soul

May time treat her well

May her choices keep her whole

These are these girls' stories

The ones most jocks ignore

When they rise, rise far above you

Remember they've evened the score

Give me time and effort

Perhaps I will match, meet with one

If she gives me the time of day, then

My work is pretty much done

A future walked together, she and I

A future so bright, so light I could fly

Yet time moves cruelly on

My heart grows hesitant so

Things that used to allow people to bond

Topics that I would rather throw

I want to face my demons

Want to face it all

I want to do this not alone

Then I will not fear a fall

Trust not in myself but her

My future tied to a person, not an idea

Dangerous as it might seem

Much better than onomatopeia

Wistful thoughts, quiet observation, roaming eye

Times when my thoughts come on by

These are the girls I see

These are the gems I know

These are the ones I'd love to date

These are the ones I let go