Truthful writing belongs to the solemnity of solitude. It abandons the quaking orgy of fame, and its incessant clanging of chains inside the empty puppet theater. It spurns puerilities and glittering adornments, as they assemble like smiling children. It murders them, in dark apartments, with painted-over brass numbers hanging crookedly from the door. And it devours each, and all, indiscriminately, as they solicit– wishing the sweet candy of promise.
Shunning the promiscuity of mass allegiance, it lives alone, spending its burgundy evenings watching the shadows of dead memory dance by acidic candlelight, each still loved, and once awakened, it does not sleep again.
A couple of years ago, I left a more public writing venue to write where I wasn’t known, not unlike now. I wrote dark, honest, and beautiful things, and nobody cared if I existed as a writer. I’ll always feel that I did my best writing then. I wrote my first book then. This piece was in it.