Everyone I know who writes or paints or sings or acts asks whether life is really fair. We ask it everywhere — even to a God who is strangely silent on this topic. Yes, a carpenter’s son started something two thousand years ago. Yes, a slave named Moses rose to lead his own people. Yes, Buddha threw it all away to find meaning in poverty. Now that I am writing this I realize they were most of them — these exceptions to the rule — all men. Of course there’s Joan of Arc who rose from her female pesantry to lead her country to liberation.
Why do we even ask such questions? Answers won’t change the fact that we still must live our lives in the most positive way in order to extract anything from it.
I write and get many rejections. I also have some small successes. I act and nothing advances in my so-called career. Am I bitter? Over wine late at night, sometimes very.
It’s better not to care. It’s better just to do, rather than question the doing. Life is about motion. I want to go forward.