my road MISUSED GENIUS

I am near the end of my story, the false dawn lights the rain outside that has replaced the snow turning the roads outside to slush.  There are but 4 glasses left in yon bottle and I will toast only three times, then be done with the forth.

  I'm not sure what you think of the recent format, it must be obnoxious to have to plow through the same thing over and over again never knowing whether something worthwhile will follow or something you thought was meaningless will be corrected or elucidated, but such is the fate of the reader and not the author and perhaps we should both pause for a moment of bitterness.

It isn't the fact that I felt the waste of thinking that I knew more than all your research dollars have given you about time and space, black holes and predictability and life that make me so bitter.  Nor the fact that you obtained all of that without sharing a farthing or two with me.  Or even that I don't really know what a farthing is other than something small.  It is the fact that instead of an epiphany, all the insight gave me was the futility of what happens next, to know that I will suffer in eternity learning every lesson over and over again and for nothing.

I am in company.  The guy who lost his ear was never celebrated until he died.  Einstein was chased all over the world, although he, at least, eventually found a sponsor.  I've been reading about Thomas Pain(e) and he wrote pennyless and even his great success as a writer did little till he was sponsored after all of his great work was done and he was branded an alcoholic, probably with all the regrets of the great writer suicides like Hemmingway.  Worse still, even after he died, not even his bones were allowed to rest, being dragged all over the world and scattered to the winds.  Even Mozart died of something, between the fantasy and history does not clearly relate if it was the result of poverty or being f*ked to death.

It is sad to think that I will probably pass from this world from pneumonia or starvation for lack of coal of a stale bread.

We celebrate all those of true genius once we are able to separate the brilliant from those who are merely mad or convincing.  But the parties that have been held to celebrate all of the accomplishments of the past, that have made us masters of the universe, drinking and eating long into the night will not accompany me even if I manage to cross the line between insanity and celebrity.  Because the parties to me will start with the toasts to all the genius and then will turn Morose.  Oh, him, he's the one who proved this to be so pointless.  They will turn listless, all the physicists knowing that what they celebrate is the knowledge that whatever was previously genius and whatever they are doing they have already done without purpose, at least in this world, merely the leading men, women and aliens is some non-linear third grader's science project.

What is the purpose of a universe that treats its genius in such a way?  Starving and punishing them and everyone around them for no purpose other than the necessity of the record which continuously plays from each note.  Even someone who is born, enjoys every day of life and dies ready to meet his maker, not that he will meet anyone, is as pointless as those who were geniuses recognized or not.  Would it really kill the universe to give me a farthing or two, an invitation to present my papers to the royal society or Stanford, a coal lump on the plate, a crust of bread in the fireplace? Perhaps to hope for the happier death of Mozart?

So don't bend down for that penny.  I have somewhere to be and have to hunt for farthings in the gutter like those who have traveled before me.

And with that he drains the first of the last 4 glasses and sticks it forward with his one good arm for a refill.