The Bug that Bit Me. Part 1


And I find myself writing for no other reason than to write.  Let me tell you of my days, I sit in a room and wait for my turn to speak…  No I am bored already, I wish only to speak, to play, to pretend, and nothing more, nothing more than this, to play anything other than my own part, for then I may not be taken seriously, for then I have no need to play for keeps, I play for sake of play, I play and play and play and some say the way I play is all and good and well for such a one as me.  With little one can make so much, with much it is harder to make even so much as that.  How mayest I portray a man who differs so little from moment to moment when I am a man that differs so much from moment to moment.  I do not know this man whom I must portray, I must not know myself.



What is this acting creature character, this bug?  It is a parasite that infects it’s hosts and saps them of their creativity in a euphoric exchange of energy and fluids.  It neither bites, nor scratches but leaves it’s mark upon the mind men and women young and old…




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