Pretension

To write is itself a gross declaration of a deep pretension. To write is to declare to all, “My thoughts are important! So important, that I must export them from my mind into the minds of others. My thoughts, my wondrous thoughts, are to good to simply be my thoughts. They must be everyone’s thoughts. The words in my mind must bounce around in the heads of others, their thoughts, annihilated, replaced with mine.” The vanity of mind, that the mere excrement of thought must be immortalized in word. And truly, thought is excrement. It’s done without intent, unconsciously throughout existence, it appears as does an urge, and the self-aggrandizing so called “author,” rather than discarding of this excrement as everyone else does, feels that he must smear it all across some parchment and shove it in the face of all around him. His glorious declaration, “I think! And this is what I’ve thought!” And without the slightest shame, akin to a toddler declaring that he is now potty trained. Maybe he should’ve been taught how to flush.