In your minds, you are all special. You like to fool yourselves that your experience and outlook on the world is different, unique. Any suggestion that even your most unusual thoughts have already flitted through the minds of billions of others on this rock you live on is instantly quashed. You are convinced by your significance. If only others could just look in to your souls and see what a unique being you are, oh how they would worship you.
“The things we’ve seen... way beyond anything you could dream of”, you cry. The reality is that even Saturday afternoon B-movies have dreams that are more exotic and astonishing. You are mediocre, unoriginal, clones. You live your lives desperate to prove yourselves... with bad relationships, risk taking, playing with fickle fame. You laugh at those who have reached the pinnacle who claim that really, they just long for the simple life, an ordinary existence. You know they are lying.
The irony is that those few individuals who have genuine originality are hunted down and ousted from society. We’re labelled insane, heretics, psychopaths... or, if feeling somewhat generous, merely eccentric.
Freddie stopped reading the letter and, after a moment's thought, threw it in the trash.
Jeez, she thought, I knew The New Yorker had a reputation as pompous assholes, but do they have to send out such pretentious form rejection slips?
Opening: Pewari.....Continuation: freddie