After four years, it’s all going to be over. All of these experiences will culminate in a last few months worthy of remembrance, only to either be cast to dust or cherished; only time knows. This precipice is one most ominous, for it represents the final exit of childhood and the arrival into adulthood. Into a world that will chew the hopeful more ruthlessly than any school bully. It is important to consider, in the face of the encroaching future, what that all means for my writing. What will art mean for me when the world has been carved up by those lucky and lead-poisoned who were born before me? It seems ever-difficult to make a real mark on the world. Oligarchic dynasties exude childish control when things do not fill their pockets; up and coming artists represent a great expense for them in more ways than one. It is hard to be enthusiastic about the rest of the climb ahead. There has already been so much, so many unfulfilling and disgraceful moments.

This is exactly why it is worth climbing. My ultimate goal—idealistic escape from the world-grinder through what is ultimately just luck, earning enough money to live peacefully and amassing a following to acknowledge my existence, so that I may avoid the fate I fear the greatest and become an avatar of the creative drive that deserves to live alone and free from the failure of society and with the rare luxuries of peace and freedom—would not be nearly as appealing without it’s unattainability. This is the wondrous everlasting toil that encompasses life below the top: thank you economy for your generous donation to human culture. The world will be unforgiving. Especially for an artistic profession, one that must be honed deeply, with little obvious benefit to a $-eyed executive. But it will all be worth it. The toil is the last thing we all share.