the hate
I hate reading unpublished authors, and I am unpublished, and I am not even an author, I'm a confused young man with thunder in his hands. It fills me with regret and illusion. I fake it till I make it, but I have never made it yet. Other people, who seem just as intent on succeeding as me, more so even since they have taken the proper steps to succeed and I have just assumed it would happen, revel in normality as I stroll by hating them because they aren't fighting for the new. I can put up with myself because I, aware of it not being a physical fight, throw myself into deep depressions knowing these are the things genius is made of. Though I do not know, it is more of a hunch. It is more of a fear of failing. If I can just put it off until I discover myself, then I can let the rest of those bastards in. Shoveling shit into the furnace of mediocrity, hope, fear, isolation, well there are too many furnaces, and not enough shit.