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Saturday, August 7, 2010

Screw the peril-ness of literature

As I moved on into the world of writing, I realised writers have the least freedom, when writing itself is the only way to convey freedom. And those writing in such manner that they would predict the day they would die with a bullet in their heads? How useful you are as a writer to the community, how educated we seemed to people, and how educated people seemed to criticised us to the core is the fundamental base to publishing your thoughts to the world. Never obey a crooked instinct, and I’ve learned it the hard way.


Bulldrop this thought. I lived in an eggy fairytale world. My freedom is beyond the capability of the maximum angle literature can bend.

Words were once thought to be a conveyer, but with added flowers and spices and a little bit of cheese, it shows that cows in the fields are the Swiss army knives of the farm.

Those taking it to a higher level? Printed names?

We can’t tell you exactly what the future holds-only prophets or madmen truly know the future, and we authors are overqualified for one of those positions and under qualified for the other. So, we place our reputation in a certain amount of peril, making moderately educated guesses about the biology, physics, chemistry, art and medicine of tomorrow. We did this for two reasons: someone had to, and we needed the money.

But do take note that we can express our discomfort and unhappiness about ancient predictions and whatever has become of today.

Long time ago, we used to have bulls pulling our carts, then we rides horses, and to think that after all the technological advances we’ve achieved, we designed polluting mobile machines that would certainly give mechanical problems to your physics teacher, making him attending class late because of his frequent visits to the workshop when we could have our carts pulled by giant genetically engineered lobsters instead...

“See what I mean?”

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