there's no glory in writing. the writer cannot be comfortable in his own skin, so he lives other lives for them. he is the whore, the lover, the grocery clerk and the butcher. the liar and thief, gentlemen and romantic, the classy and modest, the jogger the drinker and the bartender. better he confess only to himself for fear of being found out. viewing the life plain and simple. observes all things, immerses himself in all things. through his eyes everything is constructed of the same matter. cannot say what he means so he uses literature as a cover up for his social anxieties. human contact is his enemy while solitude becomes his only way to keep the eyes open. drinks to escape the pain of being a man and loves in order to feel human. scared to let anyone inside, out of fear that they will confirm his worst thought. that he is normal and without any real purpose, that his fight is arbitrary and filled with nothingness. lack all ability to communicate effectively verbally, he talks to himself inside of his head as he wraps his arms around the pillow knowing.
that there is no glory in being a writer.