O’Nest, About Himself

May 3, 2010

I am a failure, I really am. I mean: I do not even get the failing bit right. Most would even say I am the role model of success. To be honest, they are not wrong. But the thing is that I am still a failure. I never had the feeling of success, you know, not even in passing, not even for a fleeting moment of suspension of disbelief in myself.

So what can one do in such a case? One can write and pretend that one can pretend that at some point in time one will be discovered (preferably posthumously – seen as how writers are the exhibits in the freak show for people earning too much to be content with reality TV). But that is not what ‘The Book’ is about. That is also not what ‘The Play’ will be about. Neither is it what ‘The Poem’ will be about – if it ever comes about.

What are (respectively: would) they (be) about then?

About this wonderful feeling of superiority that is completely separate from anybody’s explixit or implicit appreciation of it. The type of superiority that makes me feel – in between the moments of pretending to be a genius – like writing stuff like this, using the ‘Read More’ button to annoy potential readers into clicking once more than once too often, in the illusion of a chance for a clear answer.

Like, for instance, that it is about remaining under the level of job responsibility one could handle – and milking that situation financially for all it’s worth (using the energy not spent on the job to write nonsensical blog entries and convincing one’s boss that one are underpaid).


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