I shot him at the base of the ear for kindness

I’m 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 someone holding their index finger against their 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 brought me closer to the lies that I’ve created to hide, no. I created them to express the truth about my sentiments.

I’m no longer a big fan of feelings, which is why I got into Hemingway more than ever. Metaphors work better and are more effective. Although he is one of the most emotional writers I know, his technique involves conveying emotions through imageries. You can choose to ignore them or filter them and re-interpret them. He is the only writer who does that, but you have a choice–read it however you want.

Ballard can do it too. But most women are unable to see this beauty in Hemingway’s writing, which is why they call him “emotionally immature” and a “women hater.” But Hemingway knew that nobody gave a shit about how he felt, so why tell anyone?

Writers have to allow their readers to interpret. I’m not sure if I do that.

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

I don’t know what I’m going to do when I grow tired and weak and no longer feel like getting out of bed. Sometimes I wish that day would come because I can’t describe this tiredness and nausea that keep spinning my head. By choosing to fight, I’m just ignoring my feelings and pretending that I’m not in denial.

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

People that I see through the glass are drifting. Or it might be me. I don’t know if I still care. We can look at each other, try to connect, or talk. If you’re talking to somebody else, I might steal your conversations and convert them into a fictional dialogue because I’m a literary thief. It doesn’t matter, because you won’t remember that conversation, only I will. That’s why many people don’t trust writers.

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 were dead now, but it’s all over the place; moreover, it’s spread in the entire universe looking to feed you and me.

I’m not hungry. You are, but you don’t know what to eat. That’s indecisiveness. You might as well not eat.  Like me, I don’t want to eat.

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

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