I Am Not One Of

Any Writer Who Pretends To A Disaffection For Recognition, I Think They're Being Duplicitous.

To Say More, Is To Say Less.

I Know That Pain Is The Most Important Thing In The Universes. Greater Than Survival, Greater Than Love, Greater Even Than The Beauty It Brings About. For Without Pain, There Can Be No Pleasure. Without Sadness, There Can Be No Happiness. Without Misery There Can Be No Beauty. And Without These, Life Is Endless, Hopeless, Doomed And Damned. Adult. You Have Become Adult.

Perfection. Excellence. What A Passionate Lover. But Once Having Tasted The Lips Of Excellence, Once Having Given Oneself To Its Perfection, How Dreary And Burdensome And Filled With Anomie Are The Remainder Of One's Waking Hours Trapped In The Shackled Lock-step Of The Merely Ordinary, The Barely Acceptable, The Just Okay And Not A Stroke Better.

I Was The Green Monkey, The Pariah. And I Had No Friends. Not Just A Few Friends, Or One Good Friend, Or Grudging Acceptance By Other Misfits And Outcasts. I Was Alone. All Stinking Alone, Without Even An Imaginary Playmate.