Many of the modern poets who publish have studied at universities or have some sort of credential that makes them worthy. That is why I never submit my poetry. I don't want to be seen, I only want to create. If it's bad, it's bad. If it's good, it's good. It doesn't matter to me. All that matters is if it reaches someone; that a piece of me gets imprinted on their soul, that they may carry it through another generation on this interesting chain of thought we are manufacturing. I never found my thoughts important enough to reach a mass audience, though in the past I have tried and wanted to reach many people as a blogger. The desire to be recognized passes as one gets older. Even if one of my entries had gone viral, as it nearly did when I explained Cloud Atlas, it wouldn't have made me feel any more important, only a vessel for those who wish to find an answer. And that's where my writings will be found, either in a dusty attic inside notebooks or in the obsolete boneyards of a buried internet, in a layer of data accumulated through a neat line of sentiment, the way sediments mark geologic ages in the Earth's crust. In the future, paleontology for intelligence will be excavated in mines of data that will get lost for millennia, like the fossils of physical specimens, broken free from the soil to the crisp amber air. Perhaps that is where my soul will rest, until the ink dries out and the digits untangle.
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