I must venture to say that our world's only saving grace will be found in reading and writing.
That the only remedy that will ever be found it the soulless depravity we have wrought upon ourselves will be self-expression.
My basis for this firmly stated sentiment is that each man, as is the natural way of man, believes that his opinions concerning all matters are the best, though they very rarely will be.
Because all men feel this way, and rarely will any two opinions be the same, one opinion must be sacrificed.
And since both believe fully that theirs is best neither party will readily give up, thus conflict ensues.
However in reading and writing, where worlds, characters, places, can be whatever you want, where all of your ideas can be unquestionably expressed, is where the answer will be found.
If a person can be happy in their own world of thought, how could they be so very unhappy in life? Some call it a dead art, but as for me, I say different, and as far as I am concerned my opinion is the only one that really matters.
How can a thing be decidedly dead that has beforehand been proven to come to life with such, though variable in strength, light strokes of creativity.
As well a thing that can prove so much potency in assuring one's happiness should not so readily be given up on.
Once a person can create a world their own, in which every act they may will to truth is suddenly turned fact; every instance outside of that minuscule work is likewise altered for the better.
Once happiness is found somewhere, even somewhere as fanciful as your mere imagination, it is much easier to uncover elsewhere.
It is also no small assistance to all around mirth to know that there are other places in which to be happy, for example, in life you may be a failure at all things (as we well know many men are), but once returned home, in your dim-lit, warm study you are returned to any land of magic you have created for yourself.
In addition the mere creating of a thing heightens any man's self worth.
Knowing that there are lives, be they imaginary or not, that rely on your every whim, every word, every sentence, every misplaced semi colon could drastically alter their lives is no small matter.
There is also the argument that living such secluded lives, even so much as in the recesses of our imagination, could potentially be unhealthy.
Again I would have to counter that while a life served as an author/shut in, is not ideal, it is heaven on earth compared to the hell of everyday life.
Do not wonder at the apparent loneliness you have heard rumored to plague all authors, they are pitied among all men for their vocational loneliness, but when among only themselves they are by far the happiest creature on this world.