I often wonder, will I have a lasting legacy? And if I do, will I be regarded as anything other than a harmless kook who wrote a few obscure cult novels that only passed for a pale imitation of other people’s work?
I often ask myself, what have I really done with my life, besides put out a few so-so novels that only a handful of people have read? Has anything I’ve done really changed the world for the better? Who am I? What impact does my existence really have?
In my present life I feel like a voice crying out in the wilderness. Except I don’t feel like I’m crying out anything important. I feel like I’m wailing inarticulately. Screaming into empty rooms. And what can come next from here but obscurity, death, and a rebirth with a vague notion that I had lived before as a writer whose work I can’t track down because no copies of it survive?
I have all these grand dreams of hacking Samsara and eventually escaping- and helping others escape- to the light by leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in literature across lifetimes. I wrote a whole damned novel about it. I want to save myself and by extension save others. But will it ever actually pan out?
All I ever get from the I Ching is “keep trying.” “Expect minor obstacles and minor successes.” “Just use your better judgment.” I even got one hexagram that- I swear to you- was the equivalent of the Magic 8 Ball saying “Reply hazy. Try again.” I could get as much from my father, who thankfully puts up with my eccentricity (I count my blessings to have such a father in this life). It’s not that the oracle hasn’t given me clear readings about anything either; but when it comes to where my legacy will fall, it would seem fate is undecided and I’m going to have to yell into many empty rooms if I ever want to be heard.