You know, us writers are very strange people
we like to judge others of our kind, but never achieve the perfect explanation of our ideal shape of art
we like to think that god created us to lock ourselves in a basement room surrounded by books and papers and cups of coffee, spending our life inking paper after another, to die believing that we provided society with a piece of work that will change them forever.
We believe we were born in the wrong era, we are either
or too realistic for our our time
We like to think the other way around, and carry our thoughts not only in our small notebooks, but also on the tips of our heart,
to not forget them, nor only love them.
We tend to show the other sides of things, the sides people turn the blind eye to, the side people would hate.
We sometimes identify as writers, sometimes as people from the other world that would judge you from inside out and leave you naked with a piece of paper or a lovely, melodious sentence.