When the bad times come, I write, and the world goes on. When the good times are here, rare though that seems now, I enjoy them, and perhaps take them for granted, as is the habit with mankind. And still, the world goes on. In fact, nothing I can do could ever really affect the world, nor could anything that happens to me. This, I suppose, is both just and right; I am scarcely important enough to have that kind of impact - hell, I wonder why anybody cares what happens to me at all. People are strange to me, a foreign concept. Why does one have to affect all the others so strongly? And yet, to spite us all, the world goes on.
So life follows its ups and downs. Things are born and die, the sun rises and sets, and the tides flow. No man ever had so much effect that his memory was kept intact, no man ever lived forever. Monuments raised up have fallen, cities have been destroyed, whole nations have disappeared; but the world goes on, uncaring.
When the bad times come, I write, and then I hide what I write away that none may ever see it, and it doesn’t make any difference at all. Certainly, even the tiniest actions can have their effect upon the present, but the world moves on, indomitable, and the future sneers at the efforts of men to stay it. Life will be what it is, whether I bend to follow it or cast my small weight against it. And the beauty of it all is that because of my very position I can’t ruin it for anyone else. Thanks be to God, who made me powerful and powerless in the same instant, for any other way would destroy me.
Le Sang
FDWTFUN