November

I am afraid that nothing matters. That words are futile, intellect is vain, truth is relative. I am afraid God made me to write, and I write poorly. I am afraid nothing is good. I am participating in futility, inflating the void, adding more meaningless words to the excess of the universe.

God help me, though, I must write even if it is drivel. The act must be meaningful, even if the words are not. How can any human effort be meaningless? I am trying to put my thoughts into my words, is there no meaning in that? There may as well be no meaning in Tolstoy, for he did the same thing.

I write because the alternative is despair. Talent is quite beside the point.