The Unbearable Insignificance of Being

You know that whole theory about how insignificant we are in the whole scheme of the universe etc. etc...

So this is the thing, I went to the book store Barnes and Noble, one of the only bookstores left and looked at how many books there really are.  And I ask you, what exactly does it take to be called a "National Bestseller."  Because it seems like it's written on every book.

See, the thing is, I have only written one book and from what I can tell NO ONE wants to publish it.  And not that I'm bitter, because I truly do believe it will happen to me, before I die, one day and all that...However it has occurred to me that if I write even one more book or like ten or twenty in a lifetime or say even one-hundred.  If I filled up an entire shelf at Barnes and Fucking Noble, whatever have I achieved?

I'm currently watching that movie, My Week with Marilyn Monroe, and what's so interesting is that she really wanted to be great.  Not a star, but great.  Real.  And she was anything but real.  After all of it she didn't really know how to be a human being.  Reality eluded her...

What does this have to do with the books?  Marilyn, the books.  I think she wanted to write her own book, but now you can go to the bookstore and there are a million books but none of them are written by Ms. Marilyn Monroe.

I don't know, do I want to be a star, like Marilyn or Whitney Houston, two women who the world will remember died tragically in the nude?  As I sometimes go over in my head the amount, the sheer amount of rejection letters I have gotten from literary agents, I remember one agent actually read my entire novel.  I was so grateful...he didn't want to publish it, but he actually read it.

I was in that man's head for like four hundred pages.  I made the commands, I made him think things and feel things and maybe even made him laugh once or twice.  It's like Marilyn, she wanted to be those people when she acted, she wanted to acquire their souls and touch the souls in her audience.

So basically what I'm saying is all I want is your soul.

I write this gibberish (did you know there is a proper spelling for that word?) I write it all down so that someone can know me.  Someone can know me and I can enter into their brain space and for a minute all there is going on in their head is my words.  My thoughts, my ideas.  In fact I was so excited yesterday when I realized more than 150 people had viewed my blog post.  I hope I mesmerized those people.

Wow, I really am an egotistical maniac.

It's true, I want to grip you.  And in all my insignificance, I want you to say, "I love this."

Or maybe, more importantly I want you, or your friend, or your neighbor, because you are anonymous, I write to the anonymous person, I want that person to love me, even for a fleeting second.  Because if we are insignificant, let's be insignificant together.  Let's do this thing right.


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