Less than six months after I got published, I won the Pulitzer. Actually… I’m just kidding. I sold, well, I really didn’t sell many books.
I know what you’re thinking right now. What a waste of time and energy. But I don’t regret it. The calling is for you to write stories. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Success is something that comes as a bonus, if you’re lucky enough.
But still, there were times when I thought that I could have made things differently; I could have tried to write a new book, a better one. But I didn’t. I guess that I had exhausted my patience and courage.
I had grown used to the idea of being paid minimum wage and keeping my head down every time I left my apartment. And I only left my house when it was really necessary. It didn’t take me long before being no one in particular stopped being such a terrible idea.
The flame that burned inside my soul, the dream, the ambition, the desire, all turned to ash. And I never wrote a single word again.
Do you want to know why I smoke so much? It’s my own version of a slow death, a death that I can control, that I can feel rattling inside my lungs. Because this world doesn’t want me. And, right now, I can’t figure out if there’s something wrong with everyone else or there’s something wrong with me.
And then, there’s this simple gesture. You know, you’re just smoking, you’re not thinking about much. For a few minutes, the world around you fades away and you stop asking questions and looking for answers. You just do your thing, oblivious and impervious to everything around you.
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