Gah. Why can’t I just grow forth the story of Weave and Bind like so many weeds or whatever. I want a forest. I want a boundless timberland of stories set in this puddle of a world I’ve envisioned and which seems to be evaporating. Deluge, soul! Pour forth an ocean and give it life and mystery and such depths as to not be exhausted in days or weeks but which nourishes those like me as I have been nourished by those canyon carvers that preceded me. I breathe these words easy but fiction fractures the facade I’ve formed of what I feel I must find within me. What is truly there? A full world? No. Just a few patterns. I have a pamphlet in me not a tome. And that is okay for I can read. My first order value is not an ability to mark into the minds of millions a chronicle of men and women pursuing security, outlook, autonomy, relationships, and suited purpose, building honor, or learning to be virtuous and so demonstrating what it means to live well. My first order value is my capacity to value and if I am not able to find value in myself which manifests in hours of fiction pillared accounts of vision, virtue, and honor bled from a pen at my own hand, I must not dwell on where value lacks for doing so is squandering resources which could instead be used appreciating that which is before me. A war wages in my chest. A nation of creation vs those who consume. Will the nation ever find purchase? To will it is not enough. These ends are not weeds. They require something I do not yet have and may never have. So I simply must try and grow and try and grow and be proud enough of that.
