All writers are narcissists, of one form or another
and they get that way, by spending hours by themselves, with their stories
No wonder they are poor, and have horrible social lives
they actually believe their words are more important than the people they write about
Many writers believe they are wise, and socially sophisticated
plumbing the depths of the human psyche
like a sewer
They have deluded themselves into thinking
writing is work—but that’s because they’ve never worked a real job in their entire lives
If thinking is hard, I don’t hold-out hope for the human race
they are all a bunch of buffoons, waiting to be told what to do
doing work, when they sit on their asses and think.
My friend listens to me, go on and on
he lives half-way around the world, and I tell him how great I am
“I just got published in Free Flash Fiction. I’m on my way…”
As I get older, I need more things to believe in, as the hopelessness sets in
and I realize, reality doesn’t matter to me very much—it’s what I think about reality, that matters
and I know this is a luxury, living for myself (what a beautiful selfish thing)
like a rose, that doesn’t need to be admired
for her glistening red petals
“I’m becoming a superman,” I tell my friend, “Just like Nietzsche. Sin isn’t an arbitrary rule, but something to avoid, so that we can become spiritually strong.”
“Uh-Hugh,” he listens.
God bless him, he even writes down what I say, like they are pearls of wisdom—you got to love a friend like that.