How is the writer?
The writer is beautiful or thinks (s)he is. They would do a lot to embellish the scars which LIFE has given, so generously. The writer is fine too, fine-tuned but still broken because creativity doesn’t come from a pot with a lid. The writer is cranky, lanky or fat, has a funny consumption order, looks like a vampire, sucks-in experiences so as to live forever in pages which sell, i mean, tell memories for money and recognition.
The writer is always in a trance but would gladly deny the transition from beast to beat.
The writer is great at being late seeing that they walk outside the time of others, sleeping when others are awake even when they look awake. Day as night and in God’s hands and writers walk on the thin line that separate them.
The writer is a one-man circus.
Clown in a toy car but a laugh which actually means pain. The writer is wrong, a two-faced mirror which pleases all but self. They are servants and quite frankly no writer can truly rule without relinquishing the curse of writing, I mean the course.
The writer is doing well, well is relative and the writer sometimes runs away from relating with others. Solitude is the real best friend and silence is the servant and most trusted. They are secretive, a secret to even themselves.
The writer is ugly but coated as beautiful.
Nothing is fictive for the writer and the pain of knowing that and not saying is hell although it gives heaven to readers. The writer is dead and the writer lives by being such. The writers will is to do the will of the maker. The writer is not the maker, a second creator but still the created. The writer is not an absolute truth and the earlier this is found, the better for the biggest slave yet undiscovered….