don’t call yourself a writer

I hate hospitals because they remind me we are made of flesh and bones. Also because people die in there. Anyway, people die everywhere – and most of the time they aren’t aware. Yesterday is here. I try desperately to run, but yesterday holds me back. And here I am today to put an end on it, and gloriously announce – today is the end of yesterday! I tend to get lost. Life is too short for my desires. The day is too small and the night gets me tired. I tend to get stuck between my laziness and my apathy. About life, I never knew much, except the fact that we are born to die. And those who write to postpone their deaths are the first ones departing. I am not talking about the writers nor the poets. I am referring to the thousands of people who call themselves writers – those who seek recognition, or money, or women, or any other reason other than to vent. It’s not a matter of wanting – you either are a writer or you are not. Don’t force what you don’t have inside you. Anyhow, today my words are ugly, today my heart is nothing more than a cold hamburger. I think I will try to drown myself in the shower – or maybe I should use the bathtub. Now I understand those who commit suicide – if you believe that with death comes rebirth.