A veritable sense of contentment emanates from nearly all of the pores in my body. This is not something that can be easily rationalized. It is strange to feel such happiness, because it is not an emotion that I readily accept. As I am a writer, it is my duty to capture the pathos and ethos that characterize my external surroundings; it is my obligation to transcribe melancholia upon the page, while making it somewhat suitable for commercial consumption. And yet, in order to appropriately communicate these sentiments to the masses, one must have cognizance of feeling such emotion. Thus, I have equitably followed suit: I have successfully transcribed the melancholia of my own life into beautifully written form.
Although writing is a means of adequate expression, it nevertheless is an emotional investment in itself. One cannot hope for tomorrow's prosperity unless some promise is manifested the day before. And if no promise is made alive the day before, then what will come tomorrow? Conventional wisdom that the events that characterize the following day shall of be of an improved quality than the events of the day preceding it. But how can this logic be easily rationalized if no contentment is primarily factored into the equation?
One cannot place their internal sense of pride and contentment upon a dream that will never actualize itself. One's self worth is not derived from the scope nor magnitude of the merit or honor; one's self-worth is derived from the quality of his or her intellect. One's work must be the ultimate expression of the artist's intellect, even if it infused with slight tinges of melancholia.
I am not a perpetually depressed individual, merely an individual lacking in proverbial 'sazon', as the Cubans say. I need irrational passion to infuse my life with a slight tinge of joviality; one needs to be content for the sake of being so. Although it is pleasurable to garner merits and honors, such pleasure cannot equate to veritable contentment. Although it is pleasurable to have one's work recognized by the public, it cannot be one's only sustenance. Luminescence deriving from a medal cannot equate to the luminescence of life. One must find contentment in simplistic, diminutive things. I shall do my best to accomplish this task.
Although writing is a means of adequate expression, it nevertheless is an emotional investment in itself. One cannot hope for tomorrow's prosperity unless some promise is manifested the day before. And if no promise is made alive the day before, then what will come tomorrow? Conventional wisdom that the events that characterize the following day shall of be of an improved quality than the events of the day preceding it. But how can this logic be easily rationalized if no contentment is primarily factored into the equation?
One cannot place their internal sense of pride and contentment upon a dream that will never actualize itself. One's self worth is not derived from the scope nor magnitude of the merit or honor; one's self-worth is derived from the quality of his or her intellect. One's work must be the ultimate expression of the artist's intellect, even if it infused with slight tinges of melancholia.
I am not a perpetually depressed individual, merely an individual lacking in proverbial 'sazon', as the Cubans say. I need irrational passion to infuse my life with a slight tinge of joviality; one needs to be content for the sake of being so. Although it is pleasurable to garner merits and honors, such pleasure cannot equate to veritable contentment. Although it is pleasurable to have one's work recognized by the public, it cannot be one's only sustenance. Luminescence deriving from a medal cannot equate to the luminescence of life. One must find contentment in simplistic, diminutive things. I shall do my best to accomplish this task.
