A writer is a strange creature, at once both insecure and arrogant, hiding shyly behind a page, a script, a font, whirling words to ‘express’ himself, but leaving no room for dialogue – unless he chooses to! This is bullying. This is cowardice. Write and express yourself but have no truck with another’s opinion, no sound to be heard nor alternative view amplified, one’s own voice is king, is tyrant!?
It is such a lovely and self-satisfying feeling and one that is enhanced tenfold when others read the writer’s words and agrees, or loves or quotes them. It is such sweet nectar to the buzzing words that flit from mind to mouth to pen to eyes to mind to mouth, a honeycomb of conceit. It is a dance, it is something we do together, feeling the wonders of the movement and the joy of the interplay. But when the music is turned low, we just look like ambling fools, stupid and nonsensical, selfish and foppish. So in my shame, with my own awkward dance to which I heartily invite you, in my own self-disgust I must confess, I love it!
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