“Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying its me?” -Sam Beckett
Such is the question of authorship for the author, who creates and dictates, explores the unknown, wielding force of will, and for the work, the gift, the created essence.. But central to this ‘idea,’ no it is not an idea but an act, is that she creates. She brings from inexistence and into existence and renders, a key word, a dutiful word, renders a sufficient word renders an idea, a potentiality as an actuality. Nothing is consciousness, we are left with nothing we began with nothing. Come with us, see the spectacle that is, is not. But is it nothing, is the object of creation existent only when tended to by the creator? Surely not, the object is given life, a simple life perhaps, but still life. How ungrateful one may be if one seeks not to recognize this genesis. But the life may be complicated, does this matter? Life begins simply for all existent creatures, objects, beings, things, and moves, teleologically, to complex, yes, no, maybe. How do I work this? he asks. What is this life, for me, now speaking a piece of delimited fiction, an actor of prose. I am given life, but am I given freedom, do I deserve freedom, is this freedom mine to take, do I have anything to do with my freedom?
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