This was supposed to be a daily thing

I started this blog to promote creativity, the idea was that people would read it and think I was a genius and leave all manner of comments and praise thus inspiring me to write more and more and with an overwhelming momentum behind me I would be propelled into a literary career sure to dazzle and sparkle and yet puzzle and befuddle at the same time.

The dream has died. My blog is almost untouched and virtually unread. I think and glorify everyday the position of a writer and how romantic it would be to hole myself up in a small room for weeks on end with nothing but a typewriter and walls made of literature. I always marvel at how writer's, such antisocial beings, manage to produce such sharp indictments of the modern world; surely it has to be pure genius. More likely than that though is the power of words. If it is a printed source do I take it to be truth? To what lengths do I evaluate the writer's opinion? Perhaps such a critical rethinking is a bad thing, I mean it largely just produces mountains of critics and few appreciators (something we seem to have these days).

The problem lies in our desire to snatch glory for ourselves (when I say our I mean my, and when I say ourselves I mean myself). Through being a critic rather than something proactive (a critic is reactive) we are able tear down an upheld value or piece or achievement in a hope of placing something of our own in that place, there is of course use in being a critic (such as maintaining a quality or fostering progress) but this I think has died in my generation and in it's place is a clawing, desperate golem with green eyes.

What do I ever say? Nothing, the answer is nothing. Ever.