as i was reading hemingway in the most grudging fashion imaginable

i got to thinking why his writing vexes my spirit,

and how we are all going to die one day and the sun will literally explode,

so why does it matter that one of the people revered as a great writer

is actually terrible, or that i will never understand long division?

with each page filled with disjointed and seemingly incomplete dialogue, i wondered vaguely

if that was the beauty of hemingway i was supposed to understand:

the art of what is missing,

the topics of conversation that are danced around but never spoken,

so i suppose in theory he was pretty great after all.

just not in practice.

id prefer dripping imagery, like the way you remember your favorite summer vacation or every crease and curve on the body of your lover who occupies your every waking thought,

not endless drivel about a fishing trip in spain.

but again,

does any of it matter?

there will come a time when there will be no one to remember hemingway,

let alone the colors of the sunset in the winter

or the most heart wrenching love song ever sung

or the feeling of the very first kiss under stars and a twinkling moon,

and then who is going to judge the people of words to the standards of subjective gods?