Life, in particular the value of life, cannot be pinned down or defined—at least not with any sense of permanence. Everything we do and everything we experience will change us in some way, however subtle. Despite the futility of searching for objective truths or defining universal semantics through which such truths might be articulated, writing remains an opportunity to create change. Over time, I will attempt to convince myself that this change is the whole point of life—if not our purpose, then our prerogative.
And it is incredibly easy to write, to influence, and to effect change in both ourselves and others. However, this does not mean that it is easy or even possible to control that change. Awareness of the futility in controlling the effects of our actions, despite their intent, is a key aspect of existentialist philosophy—something that has become a bit of an obsession in my own life. We may possess free will, but we must accept ambiguity and absurdity in order to make decisions for which we are fully responsible.
This uncertainty has plagued my mind, eliciting fear and inhibiting action: the awareness that to devote the time necessary to produce something substantial necessarily entails that what is said will no longer represent the reality it desired to express by the time it comes to pass. This is doubly so for discussion on how one thinks or the thoughts that motivate one's actions. Otherwise, we must assume that the creator has not changed, which introduces a whole new fundamental issue.
Knowing this—knowing that each time I reflect on the words written within, I can visibly see the divergence between the man who wrote those words and the man I am now—I can only say that this writing is a kind of elaborate painting. Not an explanation or a description, but a reflection of the consequences of experiencing life. A form of art with no purpose beyond existing as a product of my life, and reflecting my subjective influences.
