A writer sends me stories of people with physical deformities who take to crime; he calls them ‘broken people’ who need salvation.
The news talks about the arrest of an unusually venomous guy who developed a huge Twitter following, and makes a living out of publishing vitriolic remarks on celebrities, and then getting paid to delete those.
I think about Ellsworth Toohey, a character in the epic novel ‘Fountainhead’ by Ayn Rand, who ‘never starves because he feeds on sores’
I dream of an unguarded library of alphabets being plundered by people who put them together in their own way, to write stories with their homegrown rationale and manage to find emulators who want easy success.
The organized shelves of so-called wisdom need a God to propagate it, but the god gives no evidence of its existence as yet – maybe it’s tough to construct universal wisdom to suit the diversity in a disparate world.
The internet age facilitated dissemination; now it gives way to the metaverse which blurs the difference between reality and myth – do we give in to the cyclic nature of the universe, not knowing that we still hold power to influence the shape of the next cycle?
Written for Six Sentence Stories