Like most other impractical visionaries who subsist on metaphysical poetry and acoustic music, sometimes I feel like I spend my entire existence running away. I say I detest the absolution of responsibility, a culture that refuses to take the blows for its actions, but I do just that. I wonder if I will ever catch up, or if I will continue to make it simple for myself by letting go. However, that is the great lie of “letting go” — it masquerades as the easy thing to do, because all it seems to demand is the relinquishing of one’s hold, but in reality it is the planting of a root of remorse. You create ghosts of the things you wish you had done, the people you have let down. Writers recycle their regret by transforming it into stories, littered with the people they’ve abandoned. It is such a cop-out, but its a way of evading blame while simultaneously creating art. Art is the sum of our mistakes as much as it is a means of expression, for what to people desire to express most commonly other than mistakes, or circumstances that have arisen from them?

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