If I didn't like, nay love, writing so much, I would've left it eons ago. But I can't. Writing is an old flame whose long-lasting effects have not yet abated. I must confess that it's always on my mind, and when it's not, well, you'd know there's something wrong with me. When I tell people I like writing, they don't ask me how often I write. Quite frankly, I don't write as often as I would like to, and it's torture.
As Pierre Abelard famously put it, "Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, since it is a dangerous and contagious disease." If this is the case, then the writing cancer has metastasized to others part of my body. I'm doomed. There is no panaceas for the disease of writing. Oh, well. What else is there to say? Farewell, cruel world? I'm succumbing to my fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment