I’ve learned that I am most inspired in moments of uncontrollable sleep, intolerable boredom and anger. Anger with such might as my body cannot hide or contain. Born talentless as I was, I always felt I shan’t ever be able to relish any great works of art. I would defy them. Defile them. I hated those geniuses who created them. For want of just one drop of inspiration, I have gone down on my knees. I lay on that alter, praying for one great moment of creativity. I prayed to be granted one bout of genius, or life be taken away from me. Alas, neither happened. So here I am writing about all I have- my mediocrity. You can never learn how to live with it. Because life shan’t forgive you. Excellence haunts you. Those creatively gifted ones- they talk about me. I have heard their whispers behind my neck. But I have grown up. It was much worse. And that I give the world credit for. In the bushes of my mortality, the experience of personal growth is like undergrowth. Its not very pretty or well shaped- but atleast you can lie down on it. I don’t want to stop. I want to keep writing. For I fear, that if I stop, nothing good would ever come to me. I am liking what I have written so far. And if I stop, this would just be another bit of paper that gets stapled onto the other unconnected bits. It would bring me no fame. It would never get published. I pause now. I want to read what has been written so far. I like it. I feel like reading it over and over again. I read it like a maniac repeats his words and shakes his head. I cant believe myself. I cant wait to gloat.