I warned you

intro

“I feel like my life is so scattered right now. Like it's all the small pieces of paper and someone's turned on the fan. But, talking to you makes me feel like the fan's been turned off for a little bit. Like things could actually make sense. You completely unscatter me, and I appreciate that so much.”

― John Green, Will Grayson, Will Grayson

Dishonest?

Morally ambiguous?

Delete that...thought...

Ahhh *echoes*

And the crowd goes...

Wild?

No...No that won’t do.

Ah yes, I think I remember now. I, being me, or myself, call myself ‘me’. My name is irrelevant, and therefore omitted. So I become known to you as me, or if you crave a pseudonym you may call me Roland. Like Roland Deschain I guess, look him up. Honestly, I’m not really like he is at all, he being Roland Deschain, a fictional character no less. But I like to pretend I can ever amount to all that he has accomplished through no device but the ink in which he is writ and the mind of the onlooking reader. The reader, being myself, whom observes Roland Deschain of Gilead, descended from the line of Arthur Eld, finds himself (myself) entranced by all that he is and all which he understands. He being the original Roland, a man of many attributes I find desirable and in want of. Though surely he is not the first be known by such a name. If you do read about him, consider yourself luckier than the person reading this bungled progression of thoughts parading across the page. Stephen King is a vastly superior storyteller by comparison, and has decades more of experience and honed talent in one thumb than I have in my entire body. That’s not my point, to best Stephen King, it isn’t. It wouldn’t matter if it were, I couldn’t if I tried.

“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.”

― Stephen King, The Gunslinger

This really isn’t anything at all. In fact, I doubt it will ever amount to anything. I’m just a kid. A foolish kid of seventeen. There is no rhyme or reason to what I am writing, this is merely an attempt at an honest reflection on the life I have lived, the morals and philosophies I have developed, and the things in the world around me. It’s for me, it’s for you, it’s for anyone who wants it. I’m not really doing this to be published, or to make money. If you want to read, by all means read, be my guest. I’m not ashamed at all, my real name isn’t going to appear. I may fancify some details. Maybe. I don’t know, we’ll see when we get there I suppose. Some of it may be for the purpose of satire or irony, or to make anecdotes more intellectually engaging. It’s not marketing to attract more readers, its a stylistic writer’s choice. Nobody can tell me what to do, this is my reflection. On this page I become a god of sorts.

As an atheist behind the page, I subscribe to concepts such as thought and an Existentialist frame of mind. Predestination is bullshit. Cockeyed bullshit. You cannot be definitively certain of anything in life. You might be 99.99% sure you’re going to die, but until you keel over dead as a doornail, you cannot say with absolute conviction that someday you will die. There is only the moment at hand, I choose to take heed of the urgency of now. I’m a hypocrite, I fret the past and worry the future, and squander the moment perpetually. Don’t waste your time looking to tomorrow or pining over squandered interests vanishing through the window of yesterday (still a hypocrite, but to my credit I do try). In the linear scale of time, you cannot revisit, nor jump forth to any point in time but that which is at hand. Sorry Billy Pilgrim, but Tralfamadore is dead to me. I did love that book a great deal. There might even be flying saucers and skewed perceptions of time and life, but I don’t buy it. Not for a minute. In fact, somewhere in this book we’ll even talk about when I first read Vonnegut. I don’t mean to jump into my personal beliefs already, this is just pure ideas flowing onto paper. Maybe I’ll remove it later, maybe not. Maybe, if I do elaborate and orchestrate some of the things in this book, I’ll even tell you. I probably owe you that, the truth. I might owe you the truth, but not my name. You are the reader, that is your name to me. Therefore I am the author, that is my name to you. Or Roland. You may call me Roland.

Author's Note

I would love feedback on this in general. Writing style, consistency, how linearly (or not) it moves, whether it's even a valid idea.