I find today I am filled with doubt. I am ashamed that in a recent post I quoted Shakespeare, as though to compare what I am doing here with what he (or they, I know you will not confuse me with a Shakespeare scholar) did then. He is merely one example of an esteemed Author (capitalization intended) who has said already whatever it is I am feebly attempting to say here. So why do I bother?
Why do I sit down at this laptop (oftentimes I am weeping) again and again to say to you something someone else has already said to you? What is it that compels me to try and fail, try and fail, try and then fail ad infinitum? Where or when did I learn Latin?
There are questions, I suppose, for which there are no answers. I could inquire of you why you are reading this, but I doubt the answer would satisfy me. My days are long and dark, spent waiting in leisure to die, surrounded by hostile roommates who do not like me, and for whom I feel nothing save contempt.
Do not look at my face. I am ashamed of my vain attempts at communication. Why do I write? I am moldering in this prison. Why do I write? Disintegrating with each inhalation. Why do I write? Is it an act of pure selfishness, or vanity, or delusion?
I fear I do not know.
You're furry. I pet you. :-)
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