I thought I chose literature. But maybe I didn't.
These days I feel like (and I feel needing to) coming back to literature. I have long ran away from many things, so has it been a long time since I've sat down and wrote or thought over real carefully - and honestly - about many things.
If I had to name a goal or main issue to my current days, I'd say honesty. I need to obtain honesty. It is hard though to believe that anyone could be as dishonest to oneself as to any other irrelevant person, but I think I am. And it is truly terrifying. Obtaining (or shall I say, regaining?) honesty concerns too wide a criteria of matters.
I have always disagreed with those who run into something in search of pure rescue or redemption, making it a shelter or an excuse to live for or live in. In many cases, literature and all sorts of arts are often thought to be related to these purposes. And I have managed to maintain sober and not fall into this trap. Yet either I was wrong about them or I was wrong about it.
I have always questioned literature. But now I feel like I need to come back to it.