MADMAN RANTS | The Writer's Genesis
Such pretentious bastards people are. They pretend for money, for fame, for sex. They pretend because inside those skins are monsters, demons of their nature. They fancy you but their demons only want to fuck you. They drink wine but their demons thirst for blood. They fancy meeting people but their demons only want to kill them—fuck some of them. You see, they pretend to live. But some people succeed and break their masks and leave such pretences. They come in the form of politicians, tyrants, murderers, whores and bitches, but mostly politicians. Furthermore, some break their masks and control their demons. These demons whisper instead of shout. And their whispers turn into letters. These people come in the form of writers. But their demons sometimes go berserk, making whispers turn into roars and that would eventually make a good book.
These people, writers, are strange creatures. They see the world in a way no one can understand. They see it naked. They see it foul. They piss on this rotting world and write something about it. They don’t sleep but dream often. They dream that their words will matter to those pretentious bastards. But most of those bastards don’t give a fuck so they don’t give a fuck anymore, too. They had too much of the naked world and this naked world fucked them long enough. But they are visitors here. Their world exists in a fascination where peace, a soothing peace welcomes them like a wife deprived of her husband from a long fought war. Writers are abused warriors.
These strange creatures also tell you stories with sad endings because that is how life is. People who think life has a happy ending waiting for them in the stretch of their years haven’t lived it long enough. They’re still in the shallow waters of love and pleasure. But these writers tell you sad stories because they have drowned themselves in the depths of life where darkness is the vast, unending sea.
These strange creatures are sad creatures, too. They piss on the rotting world alone. They laugh at people alone. They weep alone. But they choose being alone. It is in the company of no one that everything makes sense. And damn do they want for everything to make sense.
In a world where the conceited are worshipped, we need their demons. We need them to stab, and fuck, the conceited ones with words all powerful. These writers can stab them with pens but it will be a fleeting pain. Their words can outlive such suffering for they are eternal, owned by the universe and in universe they reside. They can stab the conceited with words for all eternity because that is how fucking powerful these writers’ demons are.