I shot him at the base of the ear for kindness

I am not saying that writing is mandatory, but it has become the greatest distraction that I’ll ever need along with the aid of music. In my mind I see a ghost, which is holding its index finger against its lips.  Am I supposed to keep a secret? Secrets are the last things I’ll ever have.  And yet I think my mind is trying to tell me something. Hating who I am has actually brought me closer to the lies that I’ve created in order to cover up, no, to express the truth about my sentiments. I’m no longer a big fan of sentiments of any sort, which is why I got into Hemingway more than ever. Although he is one of the most emotional writers that I know, his technique is to convey these emotions through imageries; you can choose to ignore them or you can simply filter them and re-interpret them. He is the only writer, who does that and thus gives you a choice.  Ballard can do it as well. But most women are unable to see this beauty in Hem’s writing, which is why they call him “emotionally immature”. But Hemingway knew that nobody gave a shit about how he had felt, so why tell anyone?

 

Writers have to give their readers an opportunity to interpret. I’m not sure if I do that…I’m not sure if I write for anyone apart from my selfish self.

“All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed” Hem said.  But I don’t bleed, I just dump unwanted energies, which, finally, will continue to filter themselves and recreate what I thought I had dispelled. What’s the point, you might think.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do once I grow tired and weak and no longer feel like getting up. Sometimes I wish that day would come, because I cannot describe this tiredness and nausea that keep spinning around my head every single day. By choosing to fight, I am really just ignoring my feelings and pretending that I am not in denial.

That must be why my conscience almost slipped the other night. Then I looked at Sisyphus and thought: How boring would life be if I weren’t doing anything? How boring would life be if I weren’t even pretending?

 

People I only see through glass, they are drifting. Or it might be me. I don’t know how much I still care. I have nothing to say. So the glass is there just fine.  You can watch me and I can watch you. Sometimes I steal your conversations and convert them into a fictional dialogue, because I am a literary thief. It doesn’t matter, because you won’t remember that conversation, but I always will. I wish I could forget, but the stars won’t let me. So there is nothing left but hope. How much I hate the fact that it dies last. I wish it was dead now, but it’s all over the place, moreover, it’s spread in the entire universe looking to feed you and me.

 

But I am not hungry.  You are hungry, though, but you don’t know what to eat. That’s fucking indecision. You might as well not eat.  Like me, I don’t want to eat.

But Hem ate the lion; he killed it, too.

 

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