What is really a writer’s problem? Which amounts to the same as asking, what is really your problem? Are you not the writer of your own life? Are you not? In this sense, are you not a writer forever? Can you ever stop that? Even after your death, your something remains here in some form. You might become thinner and thinner with time, so thin you would, one day, stop being visible to our beaten naked eyes. You might become like that and God knows you will become like that, but you never fully disappear. Somebody keeps writing you. Somebody keeps you alive in whatever way that somebody can. Somebody keeps pulling your goddamn hands out of your grassy grave and makes you write some shit. Is that not scary in itself? Living forever? I am talking like I chewed rotten snakes in dinner. This world seems hard to live in for no reason. That’s the paradox. We are here and not here. We are naked and dressed at the same time. We want ice-cream but there’s no ice-cream. It’s the end of this fucking world and also the beginning. My back has begun aching. I have been sitting for far too long. I have been fucking up for far too long. I will get up now. Slowly.
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