To write what is right is my right.

Sad to know I don’t exercise it that much.

I envy the self-proclaimed writers who churn page after page of bull manure, but still strive to do better, and I pity the brilliant litterateurs who fail to materialize their execellence, keeping to themselves ideas that could rock foundations.

But I despise myself, for I am neither of the extremes. I don’t write as much to call myself a writer nor concoct philosophical blueprints on my mind to be adjuged a thinker.

What a cruel world we live in, I always seem to fall on the gray area, borderline and smack dab in the middle, spot on placed between the war of textual mediocrity and platonistic endeavors.

Eternal he may live the fool who thinks every dab of the pen spills out gold and dreams of becoming relevant among the gods of literature, and may forever reign supreme the writings of intellectual giants through this generation and the next and so on.

As for me, well I think I’ll just observe which of the two will outlast the other


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