Toilet Rumination #2

I want to be a writer. I want to write novels. Short novels. Many of them. I am not a novelist but I am a writer. So I want to write short novels. It is a fair compromise. But I often do not want to write. I do not want to sit here and labor away. For what? No one reads what I write. Writing has gotten me nowhere. In fact writing has probably harmed me in multiple ways. From my viewpoint writing has done nothing for me. Every once in a while I will hear from someone that my writings are good. But this is as far as any benefit from writing goes. Writing or the need to write has been a drain. Like singing to a silent audience. Or more like singing to an audience that is not there. Yet the need to write has followed me around for decades. This feeling that I need to write. I need to create stories and express my opinions is always upon me. It rarely leaves me alone. Where does this feeling or this pull come from? Am I the one creating it? Is it a result of a destiny marked on my by some other agency? I do not know. But the feeling that I need to write, that I need to be creating is a constant nag on my organism. I can’t stand it. It is a burden. The only way to relieve it is to sit here and write. I am a slave to it. So I have to sit here and write. I have to work for nothing at my desk. It is like spending years, decades erecting a large building that people may never occupy. What is the point of that? What is the point of spending your life nagged by this need to build a building that no one may ever occupy? I can understand if you love building. You build for the sake of building because you enjoy the building of the building. BUT do I enjoy the writing of the writing? Do I enjoy the writing of the writing that much to labor away and be drained by it? Is it worth it to me? A writer is not in a position to answer these questions because a writer has no choice. They have to write. It is not their decision. Even though they may very well be laboring away for nothing, they still have to write. They are enslaved. Shackled. If they do not want to go insane or be angry and empty all the time they have to keep stacking brick upon brick, day after day, even though no one may live in or occupy the building. It is a hell of a life this writing to no one.

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