So it seems that I wrote something hugely melodramatic I don't even know how long ago and proceeded to completely forget about it until coming across it just a minute ago.
It says:
I am trying to think of an entirely new world. Not sci-fi or anything, just imaginary. And yet, every world that I create bears a remarkable resemblance to the one I inhabit. My thoughts and ideas and 'originality' are tainted by that which helped to shape them. The picture in my head is painted by the experiences I choose to paint it with, and so it isn't my picture. How can it be? The material I create is made of material that isn't mine.
There is no way to conceptualise that which you have never experienced. Nothing is new. 'New ' can only ever be recycled.
A true piece of originality is about as rare as perfection.
It's sort of interesting, getting an insight into your own mind at a point in time you'd forgotten about.
But jeez. True originality is as rare as perfection. What a fucking annoying nonconformist I try very hard to be.
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