A programmer codes machine language, allowing it to manifest as an interactive design made of light and sound.  Now what if existence is infinite?  What if every possibility—somewhere in the multiverse—exists as its own world with its own laws of nature?  That would mean that a writer is creating something real, although to our limited senses, it would appear imaginary and aetheric.  

That would mean a writer is coding reality.

Be strong enough, and you can bull through pain.  Be clever enough, and you can save your strength.  Be aware enough, and you can sink deep into the moment, appreciating every second as a self-contained miracle that configured itself through some amazing iteration of gravity/matter/energy.  Because sometimes, [strength/smarts/wisdom/cleverness/etc.] will not be enough.  The only choice you will have is to experience that moment as fully as possible.

 (You might even be able enjoy it )

I once thought I knew who I was…until I realized that locking into a single persona can be a dysfunctional trap.  Once I began exploring different personalities—being who I needed to be when I wanted—identity started revealing itself to be a functional game; infinitely varied and infinitely novel.

And oh yeah—I was also able to start writing.

In my quest to achieve quality results, I’ve been hamstrung by poor attention to detail, lack of commitment, and lack of awareness.  On different occasions, those weaknesses have made me a liar, a hypocrite, or a failure.  So as I strive to do this or that, I try to constantly assess the premises/logic I operate from, always endeavoring to keep my efforts free from low-grade thought or insufficient action.

I’ve learned to be careful with “dark truths.”  If a friend asks, I’ll tell them a hurtful truth, and even then, I’ll precede it with a warning that it won’t be pleasant.  But unless they ask again, I’ll do my best to not bring it up.  Because the reality behind a dark truth is that people will face them when they’re good and ready and not a moment before, no matter who tells it to them, and no matter how much evidence they’re getting slammed with.  Unpleasant truths are only heard when the recipient is ready to inconvenience the hell out of themselves, set their self-image aside, and engage in some painful evolution.

In my experience, voluntarily engaging in a productive regimen of hardship doesn’t just make life more enjoyable, it also tends to make life easier in the long run.  

Our identities keep us tethered to a certain perspective—one that’s composed of certain viewpoints based on certain experiences.  But in order to jump from perspective to perspective, to jump from world to world, it’s necessary to loosen that identity.  

That’s where writers come in.

Some acquaintances of mine have asked me how I write.  They get excited when I tell them that I believe in “loosening my identity” so I can see from different characters’ perspectives.  Sounds cool, right?  They ask me how to do that, and I tell them that a simple (but not easy) exercise is to make a convincing case in your mind that the most respected/loved/revered person in your life is a villain, and that the most hated/vile/evil person in your life is a hero, and to support these cases with evidence.  (Everyone’s played the hero and villain at one time or another, right?)  But folks don’t like to hear that, much less try it out; I suspect it attacks the comfortable boundaries they’ve set around the people they know. 

Needless to say, the acquaintances I’ve told that to have moved on to other endeavors.

I can’t deny that mouthing truisms is pretty damn fun, but in my opinion, it isn’t half as fun as those instances when I stop being a mouthpiece and become a conduit.

When you demonize someone, you blind yourself to the insights they might be able to offer.  So if you’re disciplined and clearheaded, there are no “demons,” only teachers with unsavory polarities.  You may have to fight or undermine them; it doesn’t change the fact you can still learn from them.