Inside, or Outside?

    Nearly one hundred years ago, a literate noblewoman in a French salon told Hemingway: Unpublished novel is just a heap of papers. At that moment Hemingway was just a young writer and was struggling to think, to exprience, to write, to join society to learn so called “literature”.
    However, from this motto he learned that besides his gifted writing he should try to put his scripts into printings.

    Inside, we sing poems everyday, without any tools but sentences in our mind.
    But queerly we still feel lonely, as a drama performing in an emtpy threate.No one told you, the show is excellent or not. All silence.

    Outside, immense hoaring and vanity fair, how grandiose! So many people are rich and ecstatic, except ourselves. No one hear what you are murmuring, most likely.

    I know it might break my promise that I will never write blog. However I must explain this is only a form of transition, before I finished establishing my personal site I have to find a place to excrete my words, otherwise, my annoyance of solitude will explode, tease my body, and kill my existence.

    Honestly, if I can’t find any meaning of living, suiciding to release is my last corner.
    It is not the matter of being inside or being outside. It is just an expression, from my inside, to your outside.

    This is Honest Grave. Welcome to the pessimist’s confession.