[1.01]
Hello. This is not a novel. I’ve turned my first chapters into journal entries for sharing my thoughts. I want to do the best I can, always. I want to fall in love and write poetry. I love each and every one of you. I feel a lot of empathy for the human race. Sometimes, I feel deeply sad for the condition a person has found me in. I see their struggle, their confusion. I wonder what I would do in their shoes. 
I want to make great progress in the production of my works. I have set a lofty goal, in fact, it’s most likely unachievable. I would have to write 375 words per hour, 8 hours a day, five days a week, for three years to meet my goal. That’s 24 novels, about 300 or 400 pages each. I want to sell the novels for five dollars each on Amazon. When I meet my goals for a number of completed novels, I want to turn them into paperbacks. It seems the biggest task right now is streamlining my writing output. Philip K Dick was a prolific writer, who was considered a graphomaniac--he wrote a lot very quickly. I want to do that, but I have yet to test myself. Maybe if I start slow, I can grow my skills.
I want the dialogue to be memorable, and I want my narration to be poetic. I need to focus on first person, then move to third person omniscient. I need to develop scenes, write chapters, study plot templates, to write so many books. I want to use Grammarly to edit them. It seems like the choice for getting professional results. The page is currently littered with suggestions by Grammarly. I’ll tell you when I’ve written 475 words.
I’ve always been good at telling stories. I have practiced story writing, and can produce prose. I can also outline stories, but I want to use a method called discovery writing to write these novels. I want to go where the story takes me, without a lot of preplanning. I want to explore deep thoughts I have, and reflect in between writing sessions. My first drafts will be quick and easy, and at the end of the biyearly cycle, I’ll edit what I have. I want to write one new novel per month. I think I can at least write something, even if it takes me a few tries to get going.
I want to model my novels from the templates created by Philip K Dick. I want the genre to be science fiction, so that I can focus on a theme like mental illness or modern technology to create a fictional setting that’s quite imaginative. I think I can come up with one idea per month for an entire novel, and write every day to get the rough draft by the end of the month. It’s been 475 words.
My flow includes sharing the updated rough drafts every day online. I know people won’t check every day, but I can link the works in progress for people to read when they want to. This also serves the purpose of giving me a way to check what I’ve written, and read it outside of the word processor to plan and review. This will give me more ideas for what to write about. 
I don’t want to worry about editing at a sentence level, because I feel I have a natural mastery of sentences. While I’m writing rough drafts, I’ll mostly focus on paragraphs. I’ll want to flow the story paragraph by paragraph to maintain a rigid structure and pacing. For dialogue, I want to include great phrases, and have characters deliver amazing lines. I don’t think I’ll use Grammarly until the end of the season to perfect the writing at a sentence level. 
I really don’t know how it’ll go. I hope for the best. I’m surely telling everyone I’m a full-time writer starting in January. I’ve also figured out the economics of it. I should sell 600 books a month to make nearly $2,000, the maximum I’m allowed to make as side-income with my fixed income check I receive from the government. That’s $5 an ebook with 70% royalties. If I publish 24 ebooks, by the time I’m done I’ll need to sell 25 of each book per month to make the same amount. That’s quite low volume. I don’t want to write these books for money, but when I’m done pouring so much time into them, it would be nice to have a steady source of side-income. 
Sometimes I think I don’t have the mind for writing books. Sometimes, my short term memory seems slow. But this will improve if I continue reading on the side. And my brain will compensate the more I practice. I do have the ability to write books, as long as I’m not a perfectionist. I’ve tried for so long to write the next Fellowship of the Ring, when I’m more likely to write The Catcher in the Rye, a shorter fiction book with less scope and poetic, personal feelings, not epic world building requiring hours of dedication and preplanning. 
I have three books I’m reading/going to read. Moby Dick -- which I plan on re-reading. Ulysses -- my hero, James Joyce. And Exegesis -- Philip K Dick, his mind, his art and his ideas all rolled into one book. I want to also collect multiple books by ordering them used for my study. I don’t seem to learn as well from online resources, unless I collect the documents and reread them multiple times. I tend to read very fast or skim reading on my computer screen. I think reading will play a big role in improving my writing skills, and allowing me to write novels. 
When I wrote The Cult, my strongest advantage was the unreliable narrator. Maybe, if I don’t focus on true accuracy, and capture the voices of my characters, I’ll have an easier time. I’ll be writing scenes much like a movie script, advancing the plot with events that take place. I’ll want to introduce new settings and characters with unique traits. I will want to study Jung’s personality types for examining the differences between these characters. I’ll describe settings from the narrator’s perspective. When events happen, I’ll have to focus my efforts on pacing. This will primarily be what I focus on for rough drafts. I can’t wait to be in the mode where I can write consistently, because it pleases me in a deep way. It’s one of the only ways I feel productive, by the way. If I’ve produced a piece of writing that I think is somewhat valuable, I feel a strong sense of accomplishment. When I’m in my career writing mode, I view my accomplishments as examples of what I have written. I may not be lying when I say my job is a full-time writer--I will likely feel a great sense of productivity once I get started. 
I’m 39% through with my daily goal, by the way.
Rough drafts are the most effective way to get writing done. By putting your ideas on paper without editing, you can get more accomplished. I sometimes edit while I’m writing, and after I get faster at writing the first draft I may do a light second draft before I reach the editing stage. That means reading over what I have just written and reorganizing it for continuity, adding sentences, and sometimes fixing grammatical mistakes. 
It strikes me that I will guide my reader along a path I share with them. I will want to focus on creating a sense of drama, of promises kept and events foreshadowed. I’ll have to think ahead somewhat, even if my style goal is a sense of disorganization. I will most likely have intense scenes and periods of writing, and I should mostly focus on building up to those, because they are the greatest scenes for my reader. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about repetition or sentence structure, as I mentioned it’s my strong point. My main problem will be pacing, and worrying about when to go on tangents, and how to follow the events of the story in a way that makes dramatic sense.
There are plot templates such as the Hero’s Journey or Boy Meets Girl that I’m somewhat familiar with that I will most likely use to guide myself through the scenes. I’ll probably write relatively short chapters, each chapter containing one scene. I’ve thought out most of my writing quirks and fantasies that I would have to keep in mind when writing a novel, finally putting together the pieces of my dreams after years of attempts. I’m also capable of poetry, which I hope will inspire me to continue to write through the sluggish parts of my novels. And, ideally, there will be no sluggish parts of the writing, keeping everything focused for my reader who may seem to write alongside me. 
Pacing myself, beyond pacing of the novel, will be somewhat difficult. I may go on tangents that fill up too much space, or cut scenes short due to lack of inspiration. Part of this will require maintaining my voice. The tangents of my narrator will make sense to the reader if I continue to sound like the same narrator as I write it. I may even experience burnout from using the same voice for long sections of writing. But I’ve a plan for that, too. I want to create multiple “parts” for each novel, larger sections that divide the chapters. That’s why I’ve chosen this naming scheme for my chapters: [1.01] [2.01] and so on. The only limitation is with these decimals, I’m limited to 99 chapters per section. 
The first section might be establishing the setting, characters, and plot. The next part could be the rising action or midpoint, the real conflict of the novel. The third part might be the climax and resolution. These templates comfort me that I can do this. Not expanding my scope to such a great level has been my problem with writing longer works. Often, my scope exceeds the style of my story, and I wind down the plot all-too-quickly. I bring up large elements of the plot too quickly, and wind down the conflict similarly, which shortens the length of my stories. I start expositing the plot instead of telling a real story, at least in the style of a novel. 
I think I can be very clever in my narration. Once I get used to a certain voice, I can compress meanings into poetic language. I can add metaphors and figures of speech (something this chapter has so far been lacking.) I can also write more than one chapter per day. For example, I feel this chapter is nearing its end, but I’m 60% of my goal. I could easily reorient, plan my next chapter/topic/scene, and come back to writing to write some completely new style. 3000 words a day is less than I am capable of, but is still a big goal for one writer, especially over multiple days. I’ve calculated I can write at most 5000 words a day, so I’ll be writing close to my maximum every day. It probably will be hard to do it day after day, but I plan to set my work hours between 9-5, staying close to my laptop during that time and never hesitating to put words on the page when I get the inspiration. I already have a sedentary lifestyle, with no responsibilities, so dedicating myself to these timeframes will come naturally. It seems I may procrastinate sometimes, but with a worthwhile workflow, I’ll be rewarded enough to continue working hard.
I want to include lots of emotion like sympathy and empathy, but I think it would be wise to avoid voicing frustrations or anger. I would be apt to distance myself from my own writing if it was a source of discomfort to finish scenes. Also, I don’t think I would like the posterity of anger or rants to be put in my novels, and I don’t think readers will appreciate it.
My main to-do list is to continue reading, mark my writing hours, continue with my work flow, and make rough drafts of scenes every day until I get a novel done. Month by month, I’ll conceptualize new novels and continue writing until I have multiple books for sale, up to the number of 24 novels by the time I call it quits. If I write at this pace, I’ll have 8 novels a year, if each novel is deemed successful. In 3 years, I’ll have 24 books. I surely hope I can do it. Won’t you do it with me?
[1.02]
His focus aligned on the moon. Eyes shot upwards to the pink sunrise, he breathed out the wind of a survivor. Another day of building his empire. His assets included digital art pieces stored on website servers, distributed to his fans and supporters freely. His democratic lifestyle led him to seek no recompense for his work, sacrificing profit for influence. He strode down the sidewalk, feeling the humid air stick to his skin, wearing a fashion t-shirt and pre-worn jeans. 
The audience his art was intended for were the hardworking men and women of his hometown. It captured the frivolity of mutual disgust and heeded the call for sympathy among each other. He depicted juxtaposed images of a shared dilemma, on one side the character was anguished, fighting back against the other. On the right side was a picture of calm, a human being at odds with the chaos in his heart, reaching out in the conflict to find a solution, open-minded enough to share their soul with another. It was this sharing that he believed in. Expressing emotion and allowing himself to feel were his priorities.
The conflict that raged on in his town was a social and political one, driven by money and status. The ones with little wealth could not influence anyone else. The poor were oppressed and silenced, even if they could prove their merit as human beings. The local officials were chosen based on financial success, and their policies made outsiders of the working class. Residents were trying to become rich above all else, and he knew this was true because he himself was not rich, and he was dismissed as a psycho lunatic by nearly everyone despite his talent.
“Get out of here, Randy,” the clerk at the coffee shop said. She knew he didn’t have much money.
“Aren’t you willing to part with a single cup of coffee?” he asked. This was nearly a legal offense in her mind. It was next to stealing, asking for free food.
“Get out.”
The world was his oyster. He noticed the brand marketing for all the small businesses in his area most often. There were southern names for stores, like Honkey Tonk Gift Shop, which he thought were ineffective. The business owners, so obsessed over profit, weren’t doing any research at all of the kind that would increase sales. The prices of their goods would rise, but no one spent any money in their shops, and they would close down quite quickly. Of course, he noticed the irony that as an artist, he could design marketing materials for any of these shops that could improve the store’s image greatly. A tropical theme perhaps, associating the climate and economy with a getaway safari. Bundles for tourists that included fun things like maps, newsletters, events, and destinations to be published into short brochures. A whole mindset could be achieved, unifying the town and boosting business. They would never see him eye to eye on any of his suggestions. 
Himself, he was moderately successful as an artist. There were people who appreciated him in the world, he would admit. These people weren’t persons to him, just statistics and numbers on his website, visitors logged by internet analytics. His numbers rose all the time. 
“I’ll take the waffle breakfast with a cup of coffee,” he said, having found the breakfast diner.
“We don’t have waffles,” the waitress said, giving him a look of deep suspicion.
“You don’t have waffles?” he asked. It was just another brutally stupid aspect of living here. Despite the fact he read the menu wrong, and they did have pancakes, he immediately began obsessing over the ridiculousness of not serving waffles in the first place. Another missed opportunity, it was a mistake by the business to capture their market audience. Waffles were basically required at diners. 
“Do you have pancakes?”
“Of course we have pancakes. We’re a breakfast diner.” She was offended by his intelligence.
Insane. No waffles, but of course. 
He didn’t have much, but he spared his change on this breakfast because he was in a particularly good mood. The previous day he completed a new work of art, a digital painting mixed with photographs, displaying the joy of life and a call to compassion. The colors were yellow and magenta, and the high-resolution image glowed with contrast. His composition indicated a rapturous ascent, from the womb to the heavens above, an inverted pyramid of self-discovery. He indicated the spirituality of freedom, achieved through constant growth. His performance metrics would mark the number of visitors who viewed his art, and he was planning to check them after breakfast for a nice kick to his motivation.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping 25% but thinking it was worth ten.
His life was an open book. He was an honest man, hiding nothing from the world in his mannerisms or speech. It was difficult for him to lie, even if he wanted to. It was something he might not even understand, he thought. As an artist, truth was the medium, expression was a form of truth, and a lie was counterproductive to the art. He lived as an artist, and it would betray him to tell a lie. The complex web of causality that would result from a single mistake by lying would overcomplicate his life until he would no longer be able to produce art. He attacked with the truth, wielding it as a tool for communication. It was a painful weapon. 
When he told the truth, others flinched. He believed they knew he was not lying, but expected him to lie in order to defy their expectations. He thought they wanted him to try to become like them by lying about himself, or he was not fulfilling their desire to oppress him. This was his fear, a darkness in his heart from which poured all creativity. He was a grown man, but as a child a world like this would have destroyed him. He turned this adversity into the production of his images, and separated the guilt and shame into bottles which he poured upon the medium.
When he arrived home, he approached his desk and opened the laptop to sit at his study. He typed in the address to his website, and waited for the screen to show his new artwork.
An error appeared, signifying his website could not be located on the network. He continued to refresh the page, blaming his internet connection. He double checked to make sure his wireless internet was functional, then tried the website again. It was down. He logged into the administration domain to check the status of his website. It was disabled due to a lack of payment for the subscription. This was surprising. His mom paid for the website with what little she gave him for the necessities of life. It was linked to her credit card. He checked the billing section of his profile, and saw the card that funded the monthly payments was declined. 
He thought of how his viewers would be discouraged when they found out his website was down. Many people checked his feed every day for new artwork. They had formed the habit of downloading his images. He built his personal brand over years and years of effort, and the lack of availability would harm his image as an artist. His newest picture wouldn’t record the views that made him so happy while his website was down.
He began to think of what to do. Calling his mother seemed like the best thing to do, but he never wanted to call her unless it was an emergency. She had distanced herself from him in recent months, experiencing a new era of self-satisfaction that didn’t include her son, Randy. The obligation of taking care of her financially bothered her, he thought. He wanted to get the website working as soon as possible, so he dialed the number to call her.
The cellular phone plan was working, at least, he thought as the number began ringing. “Hello?”
“Hi, mom. It’s Randy. Do you still want to pay for my website?”
“Randy, that website is expensive. It’s a waste of time, and you don’t make any money for it. No.”
He was taken aback. It would be difficult to convince her to pay for the website again. “It’s all I do with my time,” he said. “I’m an artist.”
“I don’t think your art is getting you anywhere. I’m not paying for a website that you don’t use for any purpose other than giving your art away for free.”
“Please, mom. It’s so important to me.”
“You need to focus on volunteering. I don’t like the way you’ve been going to places with no money. If you can’t pay for something, don’t go into the store.”
“I offer them advice on marketing,” he said.
“They’re not going to listen to anything you say.” She was right about that, but he didn’t want the influence of his mother to prevent him from doing the things he wanted. “You haven’t sold any art since you started making it. I don’t think you’re doing what is best for yourself by being an artist.”
“You must not realize how talented I am.”
The conversation quickly went nowhere, and he ended it after she was done criticizing him. What was he supposed to do, now?
He was greatly misunderstood. He had no source of income other than the tiny welfare check he received for unemployment, but he wanted to be an artist. He simply couldn’t afford the things he needed to do so. He only wanted a hobby that would bring him fulfillment, to create a legacy of great art during his life. His mom had a brother, Lance, who he might contact to ask to pay for the website.
He hadn’t spoken to Lance in many years. He lived in the city, hours away from Randy’s home. He had no idea what was going on in Lance’s life, so he thought he could catch up and ask for a bit of help. The phone began ringing. Somebody answered.
“Hello?” Lance said on the other end.
“This is Randy,” Randy said.
“Hi, Randy. How are you?” 
“I’m doing well. I’ve been living here for a while now, but I’m still mostly alone.”
“Haven’t you made any friends?”
“Everyone seems very hostile towards me. I’ve tried to help local businesses with their branding, but they ignore most of what I say. I’m interested in marketing and advertisements. I always have great ideas for reinventing businesses to help them make more money. Did you know I’m banned from 3 restaurants around here? I guess going inside without the purpose of buying anything is against the rules.”
“That makes sense. Why do you go inside without spending money?” Lance asked.
“Well, I usually don’t have any to spend. I want to make friends with the people who work there, and meet customers. I try to be friendly, but they’ve kicked me out several times.”
“Do you think you could stop going into places with no money?”
“That’s what mom said,” Randy said. “I need money for my website. I post digital art online. I have a growing fanbase who visit my page every day. I checked this morning and my website was down due to lack of payment. I asked mom if she would pay for it and she said it’s a waste of time.”
“She’s probably right about that. You don’t know if people really like your art, do you? Do you get any sales?”
“I offer the work for free,” Randy said.
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you think you could give me $500 or so to continue posting the artwork online?”
Thus began the conflict. To Lance, Randy wasn’t quite a responsible adult. He was unemployed, unreliable, unliked, and unwell. When Lance paused, Randy was immediately reminded of the conflict he had with Lance in the past.
They had disagreed over his welfare check. While Randy wanted to continue living in the city, pursuing his art in the metro, where he would have hundreds of influences and opportunities, Lance had strongly believed Randy should go to the small town where he currently lived. He didn’t believe Randy was capable of living a complex adult life. Randy’s focuses seemed immature, because instead of getting a job, he wanted to be a spiritual person, an empath, exploring the esoteric and the purpose and meaning of life. Of course, to Lance, these were all insane motivators for a regular person to have. Over the years, as Randy remained unemployed, Lance’s opinion of him diminished. Randy remembered all of this in an instant.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“The website is about 80 bucks a month, so $500 would host it for another six months.”
“Don’t you think you should get a small job like lawn work or housekeeping?” Lance asked.
“I’ve always thought I was meant to do something greater, you know? I tried to go to college for Humanities and learn the history of art in the world, but when I ran into the problems of unemployment and finances, I stopped pursuing it. Who knows what I could have done with training? I’ve made the best of my situation by developing my talent in digital artwork. I create one new image almost every week. The one I made last night is about freedom and personal growth.”
“But you don’t know anyone who views your artwork?”
“The statistics I gather are anonymous. I only know how many unique people have viewed my art. It’s quite a lot, over a thousand some days. I like to think of them as my fans, even if they aren’t my friends,” Randy said.
“You won’t be paying me back any of the money?”
“Not unless mom does,” Randy said. “I don’t have very much myself. I only get enough to eat out once every few days. The rest of it is spent on coffee or snacks I get from the convenience store next door.”
“Haven’t you made any friends?” Lance repeated his question from the beginning of the conversation. Randy knew there was already a problem. Lance wouldn’t go so far as to say it, but he was judging Randy much the same way all his neighbors did. Lance didn’t think he had value as a human being because he didn’t have a network of people to support him. Lance probably believed that nobody supported him because he was flawed. If other people didn’t like Randy, why should Lance? 
“I’ve made over a hundred artworks so far. I’m quite proud of them. They’re high resolution.”
“I’m thinking no. I can’t give you money for no reason.”
“It’s for a very good reason. I don’t work at all and so I’ve devoted my time to making art. I’m an artist.” Randy realized he was in the same circular conversation that he had with his mother. His mother and his uncle were very similar people. They didn’t value his work, even though it’s what Randy cared about most of all. They would ignore him for as long as they could until Randy started to accept his faults as permanent character defects.
He opened his image editor and began a new work.
From the center, a dark spiral emerged. Within the spiral was a face. The curved lines bent to fit the image of himself, and within the curved lines were splotches of color. From the center of the spiral, the colors were bright rainbows, but as the line circled outward, to the edges of his hair and chin, they darkened into desaturated shadows. Outside the spiral were figures of people he knew. From the top left, was his mother, and the right, his uncle. Their faces were angular, with edges meeting each other perpendicularly. They weren’t depicted with the same meaningful curves as his face. Below, a scene of all the people in his town was represented as triangular shapes. There was a great diagonal line drawn from these people to his mother, and another diagonal to his uncle, linking the triangles with their visages.
In the bottom portion of the image, he depicted broken fragments of his life. The things he needed, like coffee, bread, and cans of food were tossed about the page. A dangerous snake sit between the triangular people, whose activities were all different. Some people were kicking up the ground, while others were grabbing each other, wrestling and fighting. Their expressions were of pain and discontent. As they reached the spiral of his face, a hot red line was drawn bleeding from his chin. The cuts and bruises were represented as his main features. In the middle of the scene, a bar of whiteness covered his face to the very edges. There were no objects in this band of emptiness, only pure emotional forms, faces expressing calm, pleasure. The chaos of the bottom, and the fear and danger, had been filtered out and there was an expression of pure peace. 
The top portion of his spiral face, where the lines became shadows as they reached his mom and uncle depicted a confusing scene. He portrayed three dimensional spheres and pyramids with convoluted shapes. They weren’t the primary shapes at all, they were all warped, shaped by the torment of being pushed and pulled in all directions. The cylinders and prisms reached up to meet his family’s faces, whose expressions were of complete contempt. They were urging the triangular figures at the bottom, willing them to hurt Randy. They blew the winds that disfigured the natural shapes near his head. Their eyes stared down the diagonal, directly into the spiral of his face, to avoid the peaceful serenity at the middle and edges of the art. They crossed their stares equally, looking directly into his mouth with a vision of anger and fear.
He was torn by all these forces, ripped apart in threads that encompassed the entire scene. His mouth was opened in a scream, and only his nose, at the very center, was unaffected by the battle of the elements. His eyes were warped like the spheres and cubes above him, and his hair wrapped up as it touched his family’s face’s. Their colors were red with passion, maroon and magenta around the cheeks and eyes to signify anger.
When he was done drawing each individual part of this image, in each section of the canvas, it appeared to be glowing from the center, where all the brightest colors appear, and darkening near the edges as in a vignette. All the pieces were interconnected shapes that fit inside each other, so he decided to draw a second spiral, thin and wispy, from the outside in. It would connect every element, and merge into a pattern around the center of his nose. The effect made every element look like it was a reverberation, echoed by the sound of voices clashing throughout the scene, even penetrating the portions of serenity in the middle.
Everything was connected by this spiral facing inwards. The line drawn caressed each and every shape, nullifying the symptom of fear that came through their terrible expressions. It made everything seem, on the whole, harmonious, a kind of experience that Randy was going through. His entire world, as heard through his own ears, could be understood as vibrations merely stuck to the center of his mind. He could open his screaming mouth, and yell a word of peace and understanding, and all the chaos would collapse. He could yell a battlecry, flowing outwards from himself, and every other piece of the painting would fall to the bottom, where the pit lay, defeated by his spirit, resting after battle.
[1.03]
The bluepaint walls give my eyes a sky to view indoors where I live in my bedroom. The windows let in white light from the sun, filtered through as clouds pass. I’m looking inside the physical properties of things all the time, realizing their potential use cases. My desk could be the stable floor for a drawing. My lightbulbs could illuminate a book’s pages. My bedroom is full of my possessions, and I am interconnected to them. 
My sheets carry microparticles that fill the air with dust. My clothes touch my skin softly, warming me, comforting me. There are posters on the walls, which interject color and shapes onto their flat surfaces. All of these things combine to make me who I am.
I can wait all morning for something to happen, or I can take action and work for hours at a time. When I read the news, I’m given insight into others’ lives, significant events going on in my country. My computer opens into a world of digital surprises, a source of entertainment and knowledge found on the internet. I have all these options, and I’m fulfilled by them. The choices show me opportunity.
I live in the 21st century. I’m surrounded by advanced technology that never existed before. My belly is full of quality snacks. I want for nothing, living in prosperous America. I’m not overly sensitive, because nothing happens that I don’t expect. I’m overconfident, even as I take on more and more tasks to busy myself. I feel like I can do anything, and in my life’s history, it’s always been this way.
Above me the clouds intermingle. I am tiny in comparison to them. When jets pass by, their speeds are incomprehensible. The moon is visible during the day. 
I am young. My life is a blink in the eyes of my grandparents. They can see me as a baby, and I see myself as an adult, the progression of life all too slow from my perspective. The challenge of the day is discovering how to employ myself, not physical labor. I’m the freest person in the world, living among the freest people.
But I am very small on the face of the earth. I can’t go very far without taking many complex steps at once. Anything could happen to me, bursting my confidence into a million pieces. My immune system works defiantly to keep me safe from diseases that lurk in the air all the time. My genetics have yet to produce the symptoms of aging in my blood.
Although I have many options for how to live my life, I have experienced very little. I don’t know a huge crowd of people, I’ve never met my heroes or done the things they’ve done. My accomplishments were the victories of childhood, nothing more. I am a babe, my grandparent’s know, and it’s true.
There are greater things in this world than me. There are people who have lived fuller lives than I ever could. The weight of the world bears down on political leaders, army generals, even professional adults caught in the storm of activity on the job. It’s a great labor to understand the world, which so much has been done to create. A very complex man can understand his place in it, only realizing the vastness of its scope through a measure of insanity.
My decisions have enormous impact, now. The very course of my life will be determined by how I spend my time. I have the greatest potential for destruction, in fact feel a deep psychological desire for ruination. I see my wealth as expendable, my property as endurable, my life as sacrificial. Wisdom would entice me for preservation, to live until the very end to see the greatest things, but I chart a course to the very bottom.
When responsible people preserve life, they do so at the cost of their willpower. They strive to keep the structure of the world standing. They fly above us, navigating the atmosphere to keep their airplanes from crashing on the ground. A true hero can’t focus on themselves, because their quest encompasses their entire being. They often die for their achievements, never seeing the light of day at rest.
We live in an utterly chaotic world. To be so organized is a deeply unlikely scenario. The peace we’ve earned is through our natural fear of war, exposure to the elements, stress, and survival. Life should terrify us, and does terrify the ones who know its nature. As we lift off to the moon, we hold on to the precipice of utter destruction.
My choices are the decisions of someone trying to validate the feeling of life, wanting to replicate the joy of existence. I repeat things that I love, and I never make a second attempt at failure. My brain wants to maximize its own experience that it finds itself in, multiplying the factors that make it happy. For some reason, this happiness is self-sustaining. Activity that supports me simultaneously supports life around me. I am very protected in my bubble of life. 
Germs repair my flesh, and sight heals my mind. All that’s really expected of the universe is for it to explode all around me.