By Mark Antony Rossi
Writing is communication. For many writers, including myself, it holds a deeper purpose because I was born unhappy with this world. Some create other worlds to send their message and escape this one. While some, like myself, seek to open minds and attempt to change this one.
I prefer to pummel power brokers who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. I mock self righteous sermonizers who counsel restraint while secretly practicing the opposite. I openly question dysfunctional family units evangelizing community values while living lives of multiple standards.
I write for those folk. I write for the do-nothings and fence sitters. I write for the liars who complain at the water cooler but don’t vote. And I write for the brave ones who question the quiet. The arcane silence that knows each of our names and actions. I’m not afraid my flaws. But I concerned your laziness dilutes a civil society and fosters a faithless crowd more likely to believe in anarchy than accountability.
This final note won’t be a consolation because happiness is derived from hard work; not hand outs from half-wits divorced from reality. Heaven is not a safe zone for saints. Saints have more blood on their hands than soldiers. And Hell is an eternally leaky vessel still capable of accepting passengers.
Our paths are determined by our choices. Our problems defined by our excuses. Like every writer I am hopeful some of my words will open an eye to a better tomorrow. Like the average citizen of the 21st century — I fear I’m too late. My children say different. Maybe they’re right.