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Muse
Tuesday, August 20, 2013 at 9:20 PM
My muse has left me. It's like we broke up or something. And I'm not doing anything to win her back.
I don't know. I got sick of writing. I got sick of living up to people's expectations. Whose, you say? Even I don't know. Does it even matter? Do they even matter? I don't know! Fuck, I don't know. What was I thinking when I thought I could do this anyway? Damn, I am the problem. I don't know how to become MORE. I'm just fucking lost. I desperately want to become so good at this, that I end up not doing it at all. Why? BECAUSE I AM SCARED. What a fucking pussy. Because even if I try, I am never enough. Fuck. I don't know. Help me, please? It can be done, of course. I'm trying again. At least that ought to count for something, right? It should. It fucking should. |
“In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more particularly addressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them. I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.”
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