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Words, words, words. I vomit on the paper and move the half-digested pieces around hoping they’ll arrange themselves into a coherent thought. Coherent thoughts become the sentences and dialogues that could or would somehow order themselves into an idea to be conveyed across time and space. What does it all mean? Does it have to mean anything at all? If it doesn’t is this an exercise in futility? How could it be so? How could it be meaningless, for if all were so then the question itself would be meaningless. Yet if the question has meaning then all cannot be so. If it does convey meaning then is it vain or divine at its core? Perhaps it’s a bit both.

“To be or not to be”, that was the first question but what comes after that. Am I “to be” until the shear mass of it all collaspes in on itself. Question after question arises in my mind and each time I wring out an answer it splits into more questions like an existential hydra. My Lernaean conundrum continues and spirals out of my control until the only solution seems to be lopping off my own head with sword and flame. I will not, of course, lop off my own head and there in lies the answer. There is something intrinsic at the core of who we are. Whether by divine touch or the self-replicating sequence of genes there is purpose and value that beats at the center of our soul and that is why I write. Not strictly for your pleasure or mine, but because the more story I construct the more prima facie my existence becomes. It is a cure for nihilism, an answer to prayers, and a self-fulfilling prophecy.