I am incapable of creating anything new now. There's really no sense fighting for it any more than I have, so I'm giving up writing. It's plenty amazing how I managed to delude myself for such a long time when clearly I have no talent. I sure did fool a lot of people though -- something that can be plainly attributed to luck, obviously.
So what am I now after foolishly, pretentiously identifying myself as a writer -- as an artist?
What I have always been, I suppose -- an ageing nerd jerking off to beautiful boys in the Internet. An unemployed 28-year old living with his parents, playing online games to kill time, gaining pound after pound in front of the computer. A broken, embittered gay man with nothing but his fantasy books for company, and pillows and blankets that haven't been washed in a long time for comfort. A person without identity, without the will to fight the disease eating at his mind, heart, and spirit, someone void of passion, and someone who has no business walking amongst the living.
How many out there are like me, I have to wonder. The state the world is in, suicide SHOULD be a legal, sensible option.
