Rant

 I won’t go anywhere with the sort of people I have—barely very less—and only few take interest in me.

When I published my first book, they all cheered; then the second, it decreased; then the third, and finally the fourth. By then I understood everything: it’s not happening, I am not having it, I don’t have it, I’ll never have it.

And then I started sketching—watercolor. Now, no one I knew understood watercolors, and they couldn’t relate. But portraits were somehow liked; yet they couldn’t bring me any money. The ones I loved never gave their portraits to be sketched, and the ones I did sketch never loved or paid anything.

And coming to love—women—they too were scared of it. The scoundrel I am, the one I loved had nothing intrinsically hers; I don’t know where she is bitching now. And then the friends from school: they hardly ever texted me back, and I too found no soul in them, and left it there itself.

And then I finally found a friend who lately became my sister—she was always my sister, but it took me so much time to find her. But she too refused to get in terms with my logic, saying that she is too innocent to understand my views and couldn’t relate to me. She keeps insisting that she’d talk when we meet directly, but I know it will never happen; I know for sure.

All the women I know came to a conclusion: that it’s hard to talk to a person like you; you are so skeptic, you are so rough; your looks are absolutely malicious, and the way you look at people is also dangerous. And they concluded that it’s good that we don’t talk to him, and they kept refusing my existence.

But not responding is not at all good. They should have told me to my fucking ugly face, “pora laude.” But no; that sometimes irritated me.

And now, looking back at it, I see it as, “Oh, so this is how it is; it shall be so.” Now I don’t have any woman to talk to or to relate.

Finally, what I have understood is: it’s better I get along being angry with Beethoven; and I love with Bukowski; I laugh with Osho; I suffer with Dostoyevsky; and I finally triumph with Gustav Mahler.