This is the most amazing, most beautiful, thought-provoking post I have read, perhaps ever. Perhaps I’m struck dumb by the topic itself, but this is incredibly well-written and it really draws the reader in.
They say good writing is about telling the truth, and as a book whore, I understand that. Good novels lift up their shirts and let us cop a feel. Great writing cuts through the bullshit and comforts us with it’s intimacy. If writers don’t tell the truth, we don’t trust them as narrators, and a lot of good can come from just being truthful and taking a chance. I am no Ernest Hemingway or Milan Kundera, but I think there is a lot people don’t say. What we present to the world is a block of stone, and underneath there is a David – a David with stifled feelings and things left unsaid. It feels very Hunger Games, Capitol-ish to swallow up a glaring truth – one that everyone is aware of, but no one talks about.
The truth is, each of grasps at air, every day, clamoring for…
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