If you were the last person left alive, would you still write?
Sure, it’s a hypothetical scenario. But words are about communication. A book is written to tell a story. A poem to share an experience. You only have to look at the submission figures churned out by the publishing industry to recognise that this art is only one half of a far larger whole. So what would be the point in writing if there was no one left to read it?
Which leads me to the point of this. We have been programmed to fit in, to look to other people for approval and to compare our insides with everyone else’s outsides. But we are creatures of opposites, and so by its nature, this domestication process has also shown us what it is not. And that excites me more than I can say. Because being the last human would mean no gallery to play to, no judge and jury, no external validation, no internal submissions requirements and best of all, no fairy tale comparisons.
And perhaps if we could write from that place, then for the first time we would be free to lay out all the pieces of our soul in words so beautiful and wild, that they could never be read, even in a world of 7.4 billion people?