There will never be a good time to write. There will never be a book, movie, song, or picture that changes the world the way every artist hopes when they begin. Clouds of anger, resentment, lust, and greed get in the way. Frustration pores in from all sides, even the sides of comfort. Even those softest of hopes become dashed, no matter how strong a hold you think you have on them.
Giving up is the only thing that is truly human anymore. It’s the only thing everyone still does. For every person you find who will admit to some weird habit that you believe you alone posses (and you feel slightly better for a few moments) there will be another who assures you of your strangeness; turns your pillow into a knife.
Ask me anything