I write this sentence in the fond hope that there will be a next one. Sure enough, there is one. I’m writing this without a semblance of a clue as to where it may lead. I risk having to delete it and acknowledge it as a new low. But that’s what writers do. They risk it, everyday, putting themselves out there, to be judged and criticized and hated for what they do. There’s music blaring in my headphones. I’ve done that deliberately to keep me from making sense. It’s almost midnight. I still have no clue where this is going or what I’m going to do with it. But I have this incredible belief that by the time I’m done writing, and you’re done reading, we’ll have evolved and not just due to the sheer impact of the time that elapsed during. So, let’s together, the both of us un-evolved (or partially evolved, as the case may be), hopeful individuals continue this bizarre charade of indulging that nonsensical, whimsical atypical curiosity whose existence we’re all too painfully aware of and ever delight in indulging, ever so often.

What makes a work of art great? It’s the conviction that the artist has in his abilities and how he sells it. Eventually or instantaneously, it is the confidence that separates a great piece of work from an ordinary one. A successful artist continues to be successful because he’s understood the art, the trick of selling. He knows that his competition is just as talented as he is, perhaps even more talented. So what sets him apart? His confidence in his own ability. People appreciate the confidence and the conviction more than the work of art itself at times. The buyer doesn’t have a clue what he’s buying most of the time. He’s just got his hands on some money and wants to spend on something frivolous. The artist understands this. He is after all, a buyer too. The artist, the writer, creates a world and adroitly draws you into this world making you feel at home. Is he suborning trickery or slight of mind? No. He has a vision of a place, a world where he is at ease and he’s merely sharing his world with everyone. Some may even call him a philanthropist. His world maybe bizarre, it may be as far from reality as the mind is capable of imagining. Take for instance JK Rowling – in hindsight, it’s not a magical world that she conceived, it’s just slight of mind. All she did was make you feel at home in her synthesized world. Just the other day I was imagining a world where Harry and Ron would be having a more realistic conversation:

“Aah! Ron! My scar’s hurting”

“Jeez mate! Not this again. Grow a fucking pair. Hermoine! Get Harry a band-aid already”

See what I’m talking about? Slight of mind. Mindfuck.  And just like that, I’ve written a whole page. Without so much as stopping to think what I was writing or where the next sentence was going to come from. We writers are a curious lot. When I asked a pretty girl how curious she was exactly, she replied “not nearly as curious as I’d need to be to contemplate actually doing it” I soon realized that when she said “it”, she may as well have meant me. If I had stopped at that instant to spare a thought for this crushing rejection, I would have jeopardized any chance I may have had with her in the future. I wiped the spittle off my face, (metaphorical spittle obviously) dusted my clothes, got up and back on the horse. And just like that, I drew you into yet another world where you felt at home. The world of the fictional girl and fictional spittle. Fiction is a powerful thing. Evolved yet? I know I am.

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