A piece from a new novel

Maybe not part of the novel itself but more of a credo or thesis.

Is it not wrong to say that we are forever in a deep winter of desire?

            All any of us want is someone to love us, to truly love us in spite of anything.

            And yet it is as if the world is, at all points, dragging us apart and constructing obstacles in front of love.

            There is no original thought.

            This is a hard realization for me to make, that nothing I create is truly original.

            Perhaps it is better said: that all truly great things are spoken from the mouths of millions.

            In fact mundane works all too often seem relegated to be understood by only the person that created it.

But this is comforting somewhat. It is like by striving toward greatness I strive toward joining a chorus, joining a corpus in a dramatic and spiritual sense, of great thinking, and great thinkers. It is like striving toward your true family.

Striving toward a great love.