the rule of writing

very few things in life are said to be permanent; the common refrain is "death and taxes" although even that is a misnomer given that there are no taxes when one is, well, dead. in that sense, impermanence, as often referred to on this blog in application to some sort of personal failings we all ascribe to, is the most consistent outcome. however, the present author would like to perhaps suggest a sort of permanent reality of existence, that, while like all things is not made duplicitous towards death, exists within the constant bounds of one's lifespan. it is commonly stated that writers eventually grow to the point where previous work they have created appears crude, simple, or poor. many have stated that reading things that they have written in many years past generate so much discomfort as to, in common internet parlance, be "cringe." this experience is not held just to writers, but is commonly described by other creative types, such as singers, songwriters, poets, painters, digital artists, and more.

the present author has found this remarkably true for previously written material, particularly that which construed attempts at writings during said author's late teens and early 20s. however, a series of remarkably mediocre writings from the mid 20s on had seemingly escaped this sort of self-critical critique, largely existing in a settled acceptance of "well, it's not at all good, but it's not completely terrible, and maybe with some tweaking it could be a little less not at all good." alas, the present author committed the cardinal sin of assuming time would not wield its sword, and, upon reading said works this morning, finally felt towards them what was previously felt towards earlier works. the stories that tempted edits and consideration and feelings of potential pride now read as hollow, rushed, pointless, and simplistic. given that said stories - which compromised the entirety of this morning's evaluation - were the last stories the present author ever wrote, and will likely be so, it goes without saying that, like all things, the present author goes out with not a bang, but a whimper, stories condemned to the only permanent fixation we happen to eventually settle on; death.