Suppose somebody gave you a pen —— a sealed, solid-colored pen.
You couldn't see how much ink it had.
It may run dry soon after the first few tentative words or last just lengthy sufficient to make a masterpiece (or a number of) that would last forever and make a distinction in the scheme of things.
You don't know before you begin.
Under the rules of the game, you seriously in no way know.
You have to take a chance!
Actually, no rule of the game states you should do anything. Instead of picking up and utilizing the pen, you could leave it on a shelf or in a drawer where it'll dry up, unused.
But when you do decide to make use of it, what would you do with it? How would you play the game?
Would you strategy and program before you ever wrote a word?
Would your plans be so extensive that you in no way even got to the writing?
Or would you take the pen in hand, plunge proper in and just do it, struggling to maintain up with the twists and turns of the torrents of words that take you where they take you?
Would you write cautiously and carefully, as if the pen may well run dry the next moment, or would you pretend or believe (or pretend to believe) that the pen will write forever and proceed accordingly?
And of what would you write: Of enjoy? Hate? Fun? Misery? Life? Death? Absolutely nothing? Every little thing?
Would you write to please just your self? Or other people? Or yourself by writing for others?
Would your strokes be tremblingly timid or brilliantly bold? Fancy with a flourish or plain?
Would you even write? Once you have the pen, no rule says you have to write. Would you sketch? Scribble? Doodle or draw?
Would you stay in or on the lines, or see no lines at all, even if they had been there? Or are they? There's a lot to take into consideration here, isn't there?
Now, suppose an individual gave you a life...
You couldn't see how much ink it had.
It may run dry soon after the first few tentative words or last just lengthy sufficient to make a masterpiece (or a number of) that would last forever and make a distinction in the scheme of things.
You don't know before you begin.
Under the rules of the game, you seriously in no way know.
You have to take a chance!
Actually, no rule of the game states you should do anything. Instead of picking up and utilizing the pen, you could leave it on a shelf or in a drawer where it'll dry up, unused.
But when you do decide to make use of it, what would you do with it? How would you play the game?
Would you strategy and program before you ever wrote a word?
Would your plans be so extensive that you in no way even got to the writing?
Or would you take the pen in hand, plunge proper in and just do it, struggling to maintain up with the twists and turns of the torrents of words that take you where they take you?
Would you write cautiously and carefully, as if the pen may well run dry the next moment, or would you pretend or believe (or pretend to believe) that the pen will write forever and proceed accordingly?
And of what would you write: Of enjoy? Hate? Fun? Misery? Life? Death? Absolutely nothing? Every little thing?
Would you write to please just your self? Or other people? Or yourself by writing for others?
Would your strokes be tremblingly timid or brilliantly bold? Fancy with a flourish or plain?
Would you even write? Once you have the pen, no rule says you have to write. Would you sketch? Scribble? Doodle or draw?
Would you stay in or on the lines, or see no lines at all, even if they had been there? Or are they? There's a lot to take into consideration here, isn't there?
Now, suppose an individual gave you a life...
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