I remember when it was just me and you

lying around talking about nothing new

I remember when it was just you and me

and all those fishing trips down to the sea

and suddenly out of nowhere you said you had to leave

me being so young and so naive

said “it’s ok I’ll wait here by the sea”

and then when I grew up it finally dawned on me

that it was all make-believe

because you left a long time ago

but my younger self said, “no I can’t let go.”

unknowingly dragging my heart in tow

I am proudly an optomistic nihilist, meaning that I believe that life has no meaning or value. I am kind to others, and I do what I please with my time, because I know that it all means nothing. I simply make the choices I make because I want to make them.

That said, I have no idea what I am doing on “Prose.” besides the reason that I enjoy writing, and sharing my writing. Is that not enough? Why would one desire to “take to the streets” when it makes no difference in the end? No matter what choice I make, it has no lasting legacy, so I simply choose to do what I please, so long as it is not hurting others. I do with my time what I want, as time forgets all.

Speaking as a published author, writing is probably the least-practical job in the world, and yet, it is my second favorite thing (the first being tea). Why would I trade this for city streets if I do not want to? Besides, there is a pandemic plaguing the world, so what better have I to do than live in those creative worlds crafted by others?

Physical decisions are made by mental thought, and, by reading and writing, I am partaking in mental thought, the essence of both philosophical and physical life. So, I ask one more time: why do anything? There is no reason for anyone to do anything, in the end, so we simply choose to do things out of the influencers of life. I have chosen to write and read the works of others. Others may choose otherwise, but in the end, all choices lead to the same ending. This medium of writing is simply how I choose to get there.

A real writer, a proper writer is someone who gets published. Anyone else is a dilettante. A proper writer will polish and edit four-fifths of his time, and if he expects to be published, he'll also market another four-fifths of his time. You can always tell a proper writer. Reduced to one-fifth of one-fifth, he's someone who spends 4% of his day in actual creative writing.

If I was to paint but not very well, people would tolerate me. They wouldn't demand I sell my work. Mostly harmless, I'd fill in a canvas and once it's finished, I'd store it down in my basement and no one would care. Why must writing be different? Can't it just stay on my laptop? Why insist I jump through new hoops? I did that enough at my work. For fifty years in structural steel I answered to the man. I don't need either the money or the glory, so why would I spend my retirement hunting down publishers? Leave me alone and let me write.

As for The Prose, I've always had a problem starting a story, so I find the challenges helpful. Left to myself, I tend to stall so they help to spark my creative process. After I finish, I'll exhibit the story just once on the website, and then it goes into storage. Think of it like a choir. They'll stage a concert every so often just to give them direction and target. Would you consider that lazy?

I suspect that you're much younger than me and still working on your career. I belong in a different world, and in my world, there's a place for The Prose. And by the way, in my time on this earth, I have on occasion tried to be helpful to others.

I don't care if I am seen or even heard. My existence is equivilant to happy little wallflower who likes to observe. I formulate thoughts. Sometimes the thoughts become piled up and get to loud. I write because it's an outlet. I don't care if I'm good or not, I just want to get the thoughts out of my head. What is wrong with that? It's called a hobby. It's enjoyable. It's fun. It's recommended. If one wishes to call another out on being idle enough to respond to a challeng like this, then wouldn't the challenger be just as idle? Does one have anything else to do other than try to ruin the enjoyment of others?

I looked in the mirror and I was scared.

Great! It was a very ugly scene!

The man in the mirror was so scared!

His eyes were red and his lips were red.

He was in a sad state. It was empty.

He was so weak! Do you know who this is?

It was me!

***

ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!

So I suppose it must be funny to watch something this peculiarly grotesque as a normal human, wandering home from work, beat and tired as the blood pooling on the floor like melted cherry ice cream stops you in your tracks and draws a scream of terror and awe from your sore throat.