If what I attempted was not the highest of art, then folk would see through the cracks and realise what a complete piece of shit I was. That I was a faker. That I was actually hollow of purpose, worth and talent.
While writing is usually considered a wise and earthly pursuit, it actually revolves around sitting in your underpants while typing and spurning life completely.
The act of helping others is one of the few actions which can truly sum up the worth of a person. I mean, what else is there to do with your life?
All this does not mean that I intend to become a beret and skivvy wearing wanker who sits in the corner of dank coffee shops writing about the inequities of the world.
The shock of entering your forties has been and gone and the horror of entering your fifties is far enough away as to be attributable to someone else.
Hurt and loneliness are weights. They are heavy to lift, they make living difficult. Yet they make you stronger too, if you can survive them.
I read once that man could survive temperatures as high as 60 degrees with ease, though I'm sure this must involve comfortable trousers of some kind.
We don't tend to care if a shooting star loses in a scuffle, but when someone who has worked, has toiled a hard road to get to that point loses, we shed bloody tears with them.