When I was little, I started writing out of desperation. I needed to create my own solid ground. I feel like so much of my life has pivoted on desperation.
It’s hard for me to believe that the brutality of life is random. It’s like flipping a coin 30 times, and having it come up tails every time. Technically, that could happen, but the chances are so low that it leads a person to wonder: Is it my flipping technique? Is there something wrong with this coin?
Is every struggle an orchestrated event—opportunity in disguise? Or are we merely forced to make the best of a nonsense existence?
If the only meaning we make is the meaning we choose, how does that not feel like delusion?
The picture is far too big for me to see the whole thing, but I can’t stop guessing at what it might be.