I really could structure my writing much more effectively, and I could become a better writer by:
-planning more detailed, intricate beginnings, which could provide a foundation for much more depth and length of writing
-developing cohesive transitions among, in literary terms, “paragraphs”
-intricacies regarding the rhythm of words, and the crescendo, such as a wave along a snapped towel: the crests and troughs of the word choices, the feelings that you get while you ride the surf, and, finally, and arguably most importantly, the climax: the excitement of slamming down in the beach hard, laughing at your good time, and hopefully not crashing down upon those sharp, immovable rocks that are bad word choice, incoherence, and inconsistency among idea construction
-revolutionary, ground-breaking, moving conclusions that makes one really appreciate the power of language: things such as poetry, and the metaphor: things which, are hard to describe, but being language, is still a form of communication. It would be as if the beauty of a sunset could explain to you its nature, and could not explain it to you in words, but could actually explain it to you in its nature: in other words, explain it to you with beauty.
But in order to accomplish these goals which, I know in my heart, (and ironically, I might add), will make me happy beyond description, I have to completely rethink ideas that I adopted solely because of the inferiority complexes of others.
It’s quite sad that it took me so long to develop a backbone structurally sound enough to withstand the hurricane of insecurity from the breaths of others. I have to rewire my brain, with the power of deep thought (which can only occur when one is aware of one’s isolating external environment), regarding “intelligence.” I have to, like a surgeon, extract all of the poor, illogical, fallacious ideas about intelligence, and replace them with intelligence. (Using something as a tool to receive said “tool” is an interesting concept indeed).
I suppose that it should come as no surprise that idiots do not know much about intelligence.
It isn’t their fault, but listening to them will do nothing to you but bring you down.
I have realized that because of this natural desire of mine to be expressive, and because of the fact that exactness is in my nature and makes me happy, that I was doomed from the start to suffer in my writing because as soon as I began to express these things, with my sponge-like mind, in the face of others, it was doomed to become destroyed: torn down like a Jenga-tower in a wood chipper, never being sound enough to withstand the ignorance/envy/insecurity of others while I was still trying to figure out what the game of Jenga was all about.
Side note: writing with one’s eyes closed, where one literally has nothing but one’s thoughts, and blackness, is a most marvelous way to write, as it allows for word choice to occur, at least for me, much more easily than normally occurs when I write, no doubt because of the fact that I absorb all sorts of sensory information, as well as being lost in that endless sea of ideas, hoping only to come to that which makes my brain happy: comprehension.
I have known, in my heart, from day one, that I am destined to be a good writer. Sadly, as is the case in “human nature”, everyone else is in the same boat. The “tipping point”, where one receives enough praise to take the chip off of one’s shoulder is hard to measure, if not impossible. But the process and the adventure of doing so is fun.
I do not know why incorrect ideas exist. I do not know why humans are capable of being wrong. If only we were not capable of evil, I think omniscience would be quite a thing to have. If not omniscience, then at least humility with that ignorance. Pride of the unjustified kind slows humanity down; in fact, it retracts humanity. It’s inevitably is one of the many things that I contemplated in my youth. Oh, those were the days; back when I was shy, and too afraid to express myself. That was quite a gem, being shy. It furthered my ability to think more so than, inconceivably, any conversation ever has. To say that I am blessed would be so obvious as to say that I am breathing, so I will not repeat to you that I am breathing.
It is the human condition that the heart is never perfectly happy while on this earth. This is what makes life so sad. And I honestly think it is a miracle when anything else but this happens. It is a gift, but I think it is miraculous. I don’t think many people realize just how precious and rare said event is, when “good” things happen and are enjoyed. It is like the fact that the earth is just the right distance away from the sun for life to form.
However, hopefully, as I get older, “grow up”, and stop with these adolescent “dog-tail-chasing” circles of insecurity and doubt, I will become one of the greatest writers that the world will ever know.
That is my dream.
I hope that I can make it a reality with passionate practice.