/lit/ meta

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One more experiment.
Experiments, facts, truth of the highest instance.
There is no such thing as facts. Especially here.
All this is someone's idiotic invention.
Don't you feel it?
But you, of course, must find out whose invention it is.
And why. What good can your knowledge do?
Who is going to get guilty conscience because of it? Me?
I've got no conscience. I just got nerves.
Some bastard would criticize me, I get wounded.
Another would loud me, I get wounded again.
I would put my heart and soul in it,
they gobble up both my heart and soul.
I would relieve me soul of filth, they gobble it up too.
They're all so literate. They all got sensory deficiency.
And they're all swarming around,
journalists, editors, critics, some endless broads.
And they all demand: more, more!
What hell of a writer am I if I hate writing?
If it's constant torment for me, a painful, shameful occupation;
sort of squeezing out a hemorrhoids.
I used to think that someone would get better because of my books.
No, nobody needs me!
In two days after I die they'll start gobbling up someone else.
I wanted to change them, but it's they who've changed me.
Making me in their own image.
The future used to be just a continuation of the present,
with all the changes looming far behind the horizon.
Now the future and present are one. Are they ready for it?
They don't want to know anything! All they know is how to gobble!