Wai

But you are already at the gateway to that realm. You'll find yourself walking through its coarse sands one fine morning. You wouldn't know whether to be happy or sad because all you'll know then are mutually exclusive emotions of deep despair and creative spontaneity.

There is an essential and particular question of the audience. But it isn't about them. It is about the you you see through them. By seeking to claim the audience doesn't exist you are shutting down a part of yourself. A part of yourself that is actually capable of reaching out and asking for help. And God knows, you could do with some help.  If you don't want to be vocal about it, the least you could do is put it in words and let it soar. It doesn't matter if it doesn't draw any attention (but) as long as it stays afloat it will serve you as a distant source of hope and you'll remain alive.

Perhaps it is because Ka Bey, one of the masters of the bygone era, led a fruitless life, inflicted with solitude, that it occurs to me that writers and pursuers of thought and wisdom are eventually forced to exile to a dingy apartment, consuming stacks of pornographic videos.

By threading the past and the present into one single, coherent narrative the writer may be able to salvage some of the damage he has caused.