In a prophetic frame of mind, I wrote this a few years ago. Kinda feeling like this, just lately.
I had always thought Jules Renard’s epigram obviously true, not according to the people to whom I’ve been forced to listen.
Cases in point→
Getting real tired of hearing this shit.
Pouring everything into the Word, living little better than a derelict for years (and loving it) is invigorating, renewing—even as it feels like it’s killing the heart of me slowly.
Being assaulted by the doubts of those who—for lack of talent or intellect or inclination or desire—will never feel the exquisite pleasure/pain of writing is really beginning to wear on me. A Prima Ballerina shouldn’t have to suffer the critiques of those who never learned to dance.
Also feeling rather homicidal.
Several years ago, I scraped a dozen people off the bottom of my shoes because of the overpowering negativity radiating from them, much of which they pointed in my direction. Circumstances prevented me from entirely eliminating some of them from my sphere, but I’ve done well enough.
I have never doubted myself.
I don’t think it’s too much to expect that those who profess to care about me have more confidence in me than they’ve shown of late.
Otherwise, it may be time for another purge.