It is a clenched jaw and an aching back and a disposition to spite everything around you. To find the world not worthy of your words, and to find yourself unworthy of the world. It is towering arrogance that says, “Let these passages be free in an existence that will cherish and worship them.” It is a terrible self-loathing that sends your teeth sinking into your lips. It’s a gut pushed out and shoulders slumped and a sneaking suspicion that everything you see is altered through your gaze. They cry, “But I WANT to be a writer!” And my head hangs. You are asking to be shot square in the head.
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