Post by ganondorfchampin on Mar 19, 2012 0:08:25 GMT
Hello, beloved readers, this letter will be my last publication, as by the time you will read this I will take the shotgun staring upon my desk and end my wretched life. There is not such thing as happy endings, neither in reality nor fantasy, and I will do my best to go out in the manner of Hemingway, a personal hero of mine. I used to so naive, thinking there was actually some good in this world, but I was fool. I always knew the truth, but I continued to lie to myself, as acknowledging the truth would have destroyed me, but now the time has come were I cannot take anymore of this and I need to see the other side first hand for I have seen everything worth seeing in this world, and can take no more of it. Here is my final tale, the tale of my own life.
I remember the first story I wrote. At the time I was so young and optimistic, thinking I could make myself a living as an author and people would love my works, that there actually was such thing has happy endings. It took my awhile, but I finally got my story published. This story was extremely cliche, good fights evil, good prevails, evil dies, and they all live happily ever after. I was poor, but I managed to make enough to survive, and I was was happy that I could just live. As I pondered my works, I asked myself, is it right for the villain to die? He is man like everyone else, I'm sure there is some good in his heart, is it really right to kill anyone? In my next work the villain turned good near the end, and in the subsequent I decided to try a bit of a darker tone and portray the villain as more of a tragic figure, in the end being destroyed by his own tragic flaws.
One morning I was in the coffee shop, working on a draft for my next publication, when I noticed a woman sitting at another table was reading one of my works. This was the first time I had actually scene one of my works in the hands of a stranger, so I decided to strike up conversation with her. Before I knew what was going on I found myself engaged, and oh how great was my joy, if only it could last. We got married, and had son, and during the time I wrote many works. Once again I tried experimenting with darkness, this time going for a bittersweet ending, the hero manages to achieve his goal, saves the day, but he dies in the process. This was my best selling work so far, but I still had no fame. That was all going to change very soon.
One night I found myself awake. Some was not right, and then I realized that it was too quite. The house was absent of the sound of an infant boy screaming. I found him in his crib, not breathing, and we took him to the emergency room. A few months later I watched as he died in my arms. With that I realized there could be no happy endings, and in order to survive the pain I did the only thing I knew how to do, I wrote. I could only find relief in watching as my own creation died in my hands by my own hands. Eventually my piece was complete, and I sent it in for publishing.
Eventually the results, and I discovered that I had won a nation merit award in the arts. This tore my apart. How could it be that an event something so horrible was what could finally bring me to fame? It was at that moment where I finally saw the truth in all of its horrid glory. There is no happy endings in reality, so people cannot have reality in their fiction. They might yearn for it as they seek it within their own lives, but they can never have it, so they can not get true joy from it. No, they need pain that will tear even deeper into them then they can find in their own life, so that they find the will to continue on. As Kafka said, we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us, or what point is there in even reading them?
Now that I found my fame I continued to write continually darker and darker works, no more happy endings for me. I had another child with my life, this time a daughter, and I could only hope that things could go better for her than my other child. One day she would know that she had a brother, and it would tear her apart just as it tore me. It wasn't long before I got a movie deal for one of my works, and they convinced me to go for simple down-payment, no royalties for me.
As my fame grew my relationships grew worse. My wife said that I had changed, I had become bitter and self absorbed, obsessed with my own fame and my internal darkness. She yearned for the old me, the happy me who wrote fairy tales, but I had seen the true light, and now the old me was dead, all that remained was the darkness. One day after I fight with my wife I took it out my daughter, I told her everything and I broke her poor little heart. She needed it, it would save her a lot of pain if she had her fantasies shattered at a young age instead of having to have her entire world fall down upon her. It was for her own good. Soon afterwards my wife filed and divorce, and took full custody of my girl, leaving me alone. It tore me down, but I could not expect anything better. There could be no more happy endings for me. Once again I wrote about my pain, and my ex who it pains me to say I still love took the form of a new villain, and I the hero, and I wrote my own death as I became a tragic figure who slowly destroyed himself, resulting in the villain's victory. Pain was all that remained within me.
The movie was far too successful, but as they had cheated I did not see any of the money I deserved for work, and never again will I have such a hit. I was once fairly rich, but I slowly blew all my money on liquor, drowning away all my sorrows. Once again I was back were I started, only now I was new person, I was a twisted shade of my formal self, and I could no longer find joy in the simple things in life. As I pondered my work I figured this would be my magnum opus, the final peer into my heart. I figured that when the villain won the ending was still too happy. After all, wasn't the antagonist still a person, as I said earlier? No, I needed to destroy everyone one with an ending to end all endings, darker than "I have no mouth and I must scream". After all, only two had to suffer the fate worse than death. Here everyone would suffer the same great agony. No one would have a happy ending
It got published, but it never reached the success of my former works. They say I was too predictable, all I could write was the same bitter endings. I used to be great because I pulled something unexpected, but now I was just pain, and far more than people could ever want to witness. I tried to go back to go to my roots, try to redeem myself, but no, there could be no more happy endings, no matter how hard I tried, and now the same fate was finally going to befall me. I wish I could write uplifting things again, make someone smile, but I cannot, and that is why I must die, because I deserve too. Let me tell you one last thing about this world. There are no happy endings, as there is no story, only lives, and they all end the same way: death. No matter whether you are a king or street sweeper, murder or nurse, politician or scientist, philanthropist or simple do-gooder, the story always ends the same way, and let me tell you, one day all men shall die.
Even if the minor stories during life did matter they would still be dark. The sympathetic feel the agony of everyone around them and die powerless, unable to help those in pain. Narcissists and sociopaths control the worlds, as no one with heart could ever convince the world to love them. Only liars and the greedy get anywhere, an honest and altruistic man finds himself a mere tool of these monsters, and once they die they will be unknown, while the true villains are the ones who are remembered as heroes. Power does not corrupt, its only that the corrupt have power. Heroes are fools, as man is not good, man is evil and he deserves the cruel ending he receives. Save the child, and watch him become a monster like the rest of them. Either way there are no happy endings.
My only pleasure left in this sorry world is this, that I, as an an author, get to write my own ending. Farewell, for this is the final chapter.
I finish writing my suicide note, and I put down my pen. The tool that has guided me throughout my life time is lifeless now, I will never use it again. Now I arm my self with a new tool, one that will have an actual use and will be the final tool I will ever use. With the shotgun in my hand I redirect it, so the barrel is now pointing at my heart. With something difficulty I manage to pull the trigger, and I laugh as the life blood leaves my chest, staining the paper in front of me. I drop the gun, and slowly I fade away, satisfied with my ending. My only regret is this is the only ending I get to write that I find truly satisfying, and that one regret keeps it from being as good as it could be. No, it is not a happy endings, but its not a sad ending either. Its a satisfying ending, and those are the best type.
I remember the first story I wrote. At the time I was so young and optimistic, thinking I could make myself a living as an author and people would love my works, that there actually was such thing has happy endings. It took my awhile, but I finally got my story published. This story was extremely cliche, good fights evil, good prevails, evil dies, and they all live happily ever after. I was poor, but I managed to make enough to survive, and I was was happy that I could just live. As I pondered my works, I asked myself, is it right for the villain to die? He is man like everyone else, I'm sure there is some good in his heart, is it really right to kill anyone? In my next work the villain turned good near the end, and in the subsequent I decided to try a bit of a darker tone and portray the villain as more of a tragic figure, in the end being destroyed by his own tragic flaws.
One morning I was in the coffee shop, working on a draft for my next publication, when I noticed a woman sitting at another table was reading one of my works. This was the first time I had actually scene one of my works in the hands of a stranger, so I decided to strike up conversation with her. Before I knew what was going on I found myself engaged, and oh how great was my joy, if only it could last. We got married, and had son, and during the time I wrote many works. Once again I tried experimenting with darkness, this time going for a bittersweet ending, the hero manages to achieve his goal, saves the day, but he dies in the process. This was my best selling work so far, but I still had no fame. That was all going to change very soon.
One night I found myself awake. Some was not right, and then I realized that it was too quite. The house was absent of the sound of an infant boy screaming. I found him in his crib, not breathing, and we took him to the emergency room. A few months later I watched as he died in my arms. With that I realized there could be no happy endings, and in order to survive the pain I did the only thing I knew how to do, I wrote. I could only find relief in watching as my own creation died in my hands by my own hands. Eventually my piece was complete, and I sent it in for publishing.
Eventually the results, and I discovered that I had won a nation merit award in the arts. This tore my apart. How could it be that an event something so horrible was what could finally bring me to fame? It was at that moment where I finally saw the truth in all of its horrid glory. There is no happy endings in reality, so people cannot have reality in their fiction. They might yearn for it as they seek it within their own lives, but they can never have it, so they can not get true joy from it. No, they need pain that will tear even deeper into them then they can find in their own life, so that they find the will to continue on. As Kafka said, we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us, or what point is there in even reading them?
Now that I found my fame I continued to write continually darker and darker works, no more happy endings for me. I had another child with my life, this time a daughter, and I could only hope that things could go better for her than my other child. One day she would know that she had a brother, and it would tear her apart just as it tore me. It wasn't long before I got a movie deal for one of my works, and they convinced me to go for simple down-payment, no royalties for me.
As my fame grew my relationships grew worse. My wife said that I had changed, I had become bitter and self absorbed, obsessed with my own fame and my internal darkness. She yearned for the old me, the happy me who wrote fairy tales, but I had seen the true light, and now the old me was dead, all that remained was the darkness. One day after I fight with my wife I took it out my daughter, I told her everything and I broke her poor little heart. She needed it, it would save her a lot of pain if she had her fantasies shattered at a young age instead of having to have her entire world fall down upon her. It was for her own good. Soon afterwards my wife filed and divorce, and took full custody of my girl, leaving me alone. It tore me down, but I could not expect anything better. There could be no more happy endings for me. Once again I wrote about my pain, and my ex who it pains me to say I still love took the form of a new villain, and I the hero, and I wrote my own death as I became a tragic figure who slowly destroyed himself, resulting in the villain's victory. Pain was all that remained within me.
The movie was far too successful, but as they had cheated I did not see any of the money I deserved for work, and never again will I have such a hit. I was once fairly rich, but I slowly blew all my money on liquor, drowning away all my sorrows. Once again I was back were I started, only now I was new person, I was a twisted shade of my formal self, and I could no longer find joy in the simple things in life. As I pondered my work I figured this would be my magnum opus, the final peer into my heart. I figured that when the villain won the ending was still too happy. After all, wasn't the antagonist still a person, as I said earlier? No, I needed to destroy everyone one with an ending to end all endings, darker than "I have no mouth and I must scream". After all, only two had to suffer the fate worse than death. Here everyone would suffer the same great agony. No one would have a happy ending
It got published, but it never reached the success of my former works. They say I was too predictable, all I could write was the same bitter endings. I used to be great because I pulled something unexpected, but now I was just pain, and far more than people could ever want to witness. I tried to go back to go to my roots, try to redeem myself, but no, there could be no more happy endings, no matter how hard I tried, and now the same fate was finally going to befall me. I wish I could write uplifting things again, make someone smile, but I cannot, and that is why I must die, because I deserve too. Let me tell you one last thing about this world. There are no happy endings, as there is no story, only lives, and they all end the same way: death. No matter whether you are a king or street sweeper, murder or nurse, politician or scientist, philanthropist or simple do-gooder, the story always ends the same way, and let me tell you, one day all men shall die.
Even if the minor stories during life did matter they would still be dark. The sympathetic feel the agony of everyone around them and die powerless, unable to help those in pain. Narcissists and sociopaths control the worlds, as no one with heart could ever convince the world to love them. Only liars and the greedy get anywhere, an honest and altruistic man finds himself a mere tool of these monsters, and once they die they will be unknown, while the true villains are the ones who are remembered as heroes. Power does not corrupt, its only that the corrupt have power. Heroes are fools, as man is not good, man is evil and he deserves the cruel ending he receives. Save the child, and watch him become a monster like the rest of them. Either way there are no happy endings.
My only pleasure left in this sorry world is this, that I, as an an author, get to write my own ending. Farewell, for this is the final chapter.
I finish writing my suicide note, and I put down my pen. The tool that has guided me throughout my life time is lifeless now, I will never use it again. Now I arm my self with a new tool, one that will have an actual use and will be the final tool I will ever use. With the shotgun in my hand I redirect it, so the barrel is now pointing at my heart. With something difficulty I manage to pull the trigger, and I laugh as the life blood leaves my chest, staining the paper in front of me. I drop the gun, and slowly I fade away, satisfied with my ending. My only regret is this is the only ending I get to write that I find truly satisfying, and that one regret keeps it from being as good as it could be. No, it is not a happy endings, but its not a sad ending either. Its a satisfying ending, and those are the best type.
