Yes, you. No, not you, for heaven’s sake. God, you’re so solipsistic. Afraid to show your intelligence, you show your pathetic cravings.
You, words. I’m after you. All of you. And I won’t stop until some of you give me a living. And if you refuse, I shall pursue you into someone else’s imagination. What, you don’t believe me? Try me. I’m such a crashing bore, you’re bound to give me something just to see me bugger off.
So here I come, swaggering and shy, a mixed bag of salt and sugar. You might think I’m not what you imagined, but, then, what ever becomes of the heart’s desire except a stolen kiss, a broken promise, and more of the same. Although sometimes there is forgiveness.
I’m coming now. Loud and awkward, resourceful and cunning, confident and always in doubt.
You can run, but where are you going to hide? Give it up, please. Haven’t you heard, writing is just a game. So don’t act so coy. I know how you really feel. I’ve seen you in your loneliest and desperate moments, helpless like a turtle that’s locked in his shell. Give in to temptation and let yourself be seduced. I won’t hurt you, I’m only good at doing that to myself. Just look around. What do you see? Yes, I thought you’d say that. I was prepared for that. You can’t fool me. So here’s my reply: failure is only the beginning.
I’ve got you now. You’re mine. I’ve chosen and it can’t be undone. We are not lovers, no. This relationship goes even deeper than that. You don’t believe me. Just wait, you’ll see. The pen is mightier than the heart.
I know, I’m kidding. Didn’t I tell you writing is just a game.
But that doesn’t mean you are off the hook. You are still my quarry. Always will be. So get used to it. And give in.
“The brutal indifference, the unfeeling isolation of each in his private interest which becomes the more repellent and offensive, the more these individuals are crowded together in a limited space.” Friedrich Engels
“Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.”