My Dear Samuel

I always did feel like I was making a beast of myself, most definitely. We all know how mean one can get. So never complain, never say anything as virtuous men of yore seemed so.

Because, after all, writing is to better the readers, no? To better one’s disposition, maybe. How could bottomfeeder reflections and concentrated disdain make anything better? If anything it shows you as unkempt, a repellent because you don’t have it together. Stop wasting time, Stop feeding it, There’s enough of it.

But Samuel, I must admit, I realized something rather recently. How I’m a slave to my half-bent logics, a sucker for idealist reconstructions splintered from something benign as popcorn with m&m’s. And while I press my touchpad arrow back to take in the IMAX so the room shakes with a character smashing another’s face. Why am I watching this?

Well, maybe to be another three letter asset. Getting today’s programming, probably, and maybe I’m activating. But, beyond that, you also did say writing could be to better endure, and I’m having a tough time enduring the meditative aspirations, mind-body evictions.

That’s all the market anyway. It may be padded with generic slogans and littered with good-feel copy, but there are products appealing to the darker parts of humanity. Shall we ignore such demands? Shall we only let those who boldly venture monopolies upon our vices persist?

Well, I figure I ought to join them. Surely there are many in the same venue, and though I can’t appeal to any future with machines of loving grace, I can at least take this one and mimic any other news station. I will feed and satiate that which so long I’ve tried to ignore. Not because I’ll make money, of course, but precisely because there are no gains other than a freedom to say. May as well say, because you can always retreat to silence later.

And who knows! Maybe there’s something else to get out of it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I hope you forgive me Samuel, because I grossly misinterpreted your words.