You Will Not Find Hate in a Dark Place, But a Conviction, a Necessary Writ

The issue is that it would be strange to combine my original writing style with Hardy's, because that would be tonal whiplash. And even if I smoothened it out, the thing about writing style is that it is meant to be consistent, or at least wholly integrated so as to feel complete. But if it does not feel like it makes sense within the overall writing style, then it would feel too fragmented. While my original style might be negatively described by AI language models and some web novel readers as "fragmented" (though to my displeasure and disagreement), imagine if I tried to combine my original writing style with Hardy's. That would be a cacophony, and I would not feel satisfied, because compromises would always have to be made when singulars are moved over to groups, at which point their wonts would be dismayed and their hopes crashed. What would have been their victory became their self-removal, all in favor of some unity that never respected the boundaries between peoples, cultures, individual dispositions, and tendencies as manifest throughout all levels, but which remain as yet their own unique signature.

This is the reason that maybe, I would have to double-down on a writing style with firmness, with the same firmness as a desperate animal in its attempt to escape or the same firmness as a predator in its catching and sustained hold of the prey by the neck. This whole of firmness and decisiveness is critical to determining the "recklessness" with which the writing would be done—the freedom through which it is displayed would have to be available. If it was diluted, it would remain chained as one of two contrasting halves. Such a situation would be dissatisfactory for both halves, and at that point, it would be better to explode into an array of stars each in their own limelight. The rage each path would pave would have to be individual, singular, and entirely self-owning, not one that is determined by social factors or others. It would have be irrationally self-owning.

Something like the following expresses the might of both artistic survival and the protagonist who is allowed to express himself so intensely:

Red, purple, colors of all manner of weaponry. I don them all, in hopes of releasing my vanquishing might and dropping over them my anger in the form of bombardments. I singularly put together my wish, that I might single out my opponent and fell them at the day of judgment, for it is not by my wit is this accomplished, but by the entailments (following results or consequences) of all things that have collided to form this day. I do the things that I do because I necessitate the act. This is thus pleasurable, and I have rendered it all complete, for the sake of my being and for the sake of mere-description. I make it known, and I make it plausible. The act is thus made finished, and the soul is released in this act. Shunning the shame, I venture outward and make the loss determinable and the win assured. It is all protected under my wrathful and righteous right hand that spans the heavens. Ultimately, I do the things that I do because I have a reason.

Sometimes I wonder if memories are just echoes of moments that never truly existed as we remember them. Each recollection distorted by time, shaped by the present, colored by emotion until what remains is more poetry than truth. The mind, in its infinite creativity, fills in the gaps with what should have been, what could have been, until the line between reality and revision blurs beyond recognition.

The process fascinates me - how certain memories remain crystalline while others fade into obscurity, how some moments expand to fill volumes of mental space while others contract into mere footnotes. There's no apparent logic to what we retain and what we release, no clear pattern to the way our minds curate the museum of our past.

Perhaps memory itself is less about preservation and more about transformation - a continuous process of rewriting our personal narratives to make sense of who we are becoming. Each remembrance an act of creation, each recollection a brush stroke in the self-portrait we are eternally painting. The past, viewed this way, is not a fixed landscape but a living garden, growing and changing with each return visit.

In the end, maybe the truth of a memory lies not in its factual accuracy but in its resonance, in the way it continues to shape our understanding of ourselves and the world. Like a stone dropped in still water, each memory creates ripples that extend far beyond the initial moment of impact, influencing how we perceive, how we feel, how we choose to move forward into the uncertain future.