*sigh*

I am always deeply disturbed by stories that tell of the human capacity for evil, the ones featuring some apocalyptic situation wherein people struggle to stay alive through any means possible. I mean, I shouldn't believe in it. These stories utilize character tropes: the typical airhead, the naive optimistic, the altruistic hero, the one that stoops to whatever means to survive. These are blueprints of personalities, scripted characters that do not exist; realistically, it's impossible to quantify someone's personality into specific, one word answers. Jock. Genius. Thief. Altruist. These single-word statements cannot describe the intricacies of the human mind. Rationally speaking, I can't imagine these kinds of situations playing out so neatly in its own anarchy. I would like to think that in an earthquake, I wouldn't hoard all of the food for myself, in a tsunami, I would dive after the woman that fell overboard, and if blindness suddenly struck everyone I wouldn't go about raping someone. But see, the thought strikes me, that in the same way that I can believe that this couldn't happen, someone else could believe with all their heart and soul that this can ensue. I mean, the guy writing it nurtured the thought, cultured the notion of committing these unspeakable evils to his fellow man. What's to prevent him from actually acting them out?

I think that there's a certain responsibility in writing. People that write deal with the views and minds of so many characters that sometimes I wonder if their personalities are blurred because of it. Like, did J.R.R Tolkein get lost in the expansive world he created? Did he slip up sometimes and talk to his wife in Elven? Do those creeping suspicions, those rising urges, all of the actions boiling over ever find their way into the author's life? Sometimes I fear that when a story is sympathetic to a monster of a character, it's simply the author trying to redeem himself. He puts that monstrosity through a living hell to baptize himself, punishing him and then having us mourn it simply to go through a process of self-salvation.

I really need to stop reading depressing stuff.

I think that's what makes me write so safely. I don't know what to make of it. I definitely recognize an immaturity in my writing, and I'm not too sure how I go about fixing it. It's like... a painter, when he finishes his painting. Of course, it matches the picture inside of his head, and he keeps telling himself it's fine. He looks closer at strokes he can only see, those that were made too fast, or too sloppily, or in a color that slightly not the shade intended. There's this weird sense of disappointment whenever I finish writing now. I cannot match the stronger tones of people better than me.

Good writing, I feel, definitely explores the innermost depths of the soul. The author looks inward to tell the thing that he can best. It could be a lovely elegy, a heartfelt poem, or the end of the world and established society. See, there's this bit from a lot of writers, to "write fearlessly." I still don't really know how I can do that. I feel that if I unravel my innermost thoughts, my mind will follow, and I'll expose something that I cannot take back. It's kind of scary when I think about it. But if I am going to write, it's something I have to do, or else the words that I write won't mean much, if anything.