It remains a psychological state of self-defeatedness to imagine one poor of talent if one isn’t selected for a undertaking one has applied to, as well as feeling unworthy and deflated and burdened within quick succession if one does indeed achieve one’s aim and becomes part of such an endeavour. It’s a messed plate to not be able to win because of perception. Who is responsible for the possibility of everything being ruined before its begun? What if the others who have been chosen are difficult to deal with and fine writers? How bad would that be? Each intervention required a painful self-examining of confidence and that which is presented, sacrificed, drawn out like a donation, actually ending up not as good as those who just throw it in? Yet one has to. Practise controlling context, create freedom of the centre, the content, by disciplining negative associations. Or so the novel said. A bad novel. Stupid characters. Some self-help dolled up as a literature because it would sell. Cynical move at every level, writer, agent, publisher. Financial success but heartless. But readable. We are reading it now. We are writing it now. We write it now, back against itself, all of us, involved in the undertaking. The selected are using this terrible self-help dross to overcome the possible worries we might pretend we have, or actually have, in order to be together, though, god willing, we will never face each other to have to explain. One has to do, one does not have to explain. Let’s not jump off the tracks already. Let’s not discuss violence or freedom of will. Let’s have at least one space where we hide and don’t reveal ourselves too much too soon.
WereBear enjoyed travelling. She never much liked being home. Too many siblings, so much fighting for attention.
She enjoyed travelling to Africa and helping the little orphan kids, it inspired something inside.
And grateful she was to be inspired and not an orphan.
She met a man who she fell in love with but he was only interested in her money, which hurt so much she missed her kin.
When next she returned home, she was forced to raise her child as a single mother. Luckily the social security systems in the Nordic regions were well set up and her family were happy to help her raise the child that didnt look like them.
The child, a carebear, lacked some of his mother’s raw power, but shot magic and good vibes from his tummy. It actually helped werebear and her siblings with their writing.
This scared Werebear; reorienting her identity (which was already in constant flux) into shapes she was unfamiliar with. Luckily, an older brother who had jumped off the tracks years earlier recognised what was running through her mind.
And promised that the world is safe, even when the heart breaks and mind loses faith. The gut gots this.