Literature took up his pen and began to write:
Dear Diary,
I'm feeling pretty fed up... Everyone's chasing Music, Photography, and Painting these days... No one thinks of me. I bet you remember how in the good old days it was just me, and me, and me. No one painted. No one took photos. No one acted. Barely anyone sang, and they soon stopped. Ah, the good old days when no one was talented! When all that they did, if anything, was write down their thoughts... Accepted some of these writings were pretty stupid; even by the ancient standards. But some were just sublime. Take, for example that awesome piece of writing, the, uh... Oh, I forget. Been so long. Oh! Those days when all Art was I, and I was Art! I had ruled undisputed in the realms of imagination! And now... Wonder if these mortals even have imagination. Why doesn't anyone write poems, stories, novels, and epics anymore? Worse, what with me getting sidelined and all, I'm having serious doubts. About my existence and all. Am I just a figment of imagination? Am I just similes and metaphors and oxymorons and quibbles? A plagiarism of the alphabets?
Is that all I am?
Mere juxtaposed alphabets?
Oh. Whatever. Even I feel tired of writing... ow, my hand aches.
Maybe next time I can use a laptop. Or I can start a blog and create social awareness.
Bye for now.
Dear Diary,
I'm feeling pretty fed up... Everyone's chasing Music, Photography, and Painting these days... No one thinks of me. I bet you remember how in the good old days it was just me, and me, and me. No one painted. No one took photos. No one acted. Barely anyone sang, and they soon stopped. Ah, the good old days when no one was talented! When all that they did, if anything, was write down their thoughts... Accepted some of these writings were pretty stupid; even by the ancient standards. But some were just sublime. Take, for example that awesome piece of writing, the, uh... Oh, I forget. Been so long. Oh! Those days when all Art was I, and I was Art! I had ruled undisputed in the realms of imagination! And now... Wonder if these mortals even have imagination. Why doesn't anyone write poems, stories, novels, and epics anymore? Worse, what with me getting sidelined and all, I'm having serious doubts. About my existence and all. Am I just a figment of imagination? Am I just similes and metaphors and oxymorons and quibbles? A plagiarism of the alphabets?
Is that all I am?
Mere juxtaposed alphabets?
Oh. Whatever. Even I feel tired of writing... ow, my hand aches.
Maybe next time I can use a laptop. Or I can start a blog and create social awareness.
Bye for now.
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