Someone's Whiteness

It's not easy to write about something beautiful and free. Rather, it would be more appropriate to say that they are captivated by something, and they capture it. I'm lucky to have the right publisher, the right editor, and a handful of enlightened readers who realize that it's easier to write long than short. My novels are quite advanced in terms of breathing from beginning to end and lack nothing in terms of content, and yes, I am writing fiction to embellish. Creating boring characterization between characters is not something that is encouraged in this day and age. The gray gloomy sky has forgotten the sophisticated woman, and for such a high price, you have been scammed by the luxury brands.

M was a painter with a good brush, the bigger the paintings, of course, the more awe-inspiring they are, and as I watched him tinker with his brush, I thought of a laborer toiling away at cement. She has been making it a point lately to express the natural human body. I don't talk much about the body, thinking that we have lost so much canvas freedom with screens. There's always been a percentage of people who can't handle their bodies, and they often think they're the most beautiful people without realizing it. My neck was getting shorter, my armpits were getting thicker, and my waist was getting thicker. I was at my heaviest weight since Fennel, and yet, as if it were a secret to my appearance, the lines of my forehead, which had been exposed to the cold winds at night, still shone clearly. I am a man of letters, so I know nothing; I am a painter, so I know nothing. The wind was blowing and the stars were shining brightly in the sky. We looked into each other's eyes and felt tired of being each other.

The trees were quite high, the air was much better up in the mountains, and the stars were bright despite the apartment buildings. I was a little afraid to look at the shops that were everywhere. I might be a hypocrite if I wrote my story as a novel and then sold it. But time passed, and autumn came, and I firmly believed that for the sake of writing, I had to be the one to adorn myself with the most false things. The fact that I didn't know how to adorn myself with pretty handwriting in my diary in the first place may be the reason why my friends excuse me for writing so little, but let it be known that writing at length is easy because it's like this: it's like running into a forgotten literary figure in an elevator and realizing, do you know it, that you've been doing something you shouldn't have been doing. You shouldn't have been doing it, but you just couldn't get your head around it, could you?

The food is good and I'm driving around the middle of the road in a luxury car with a pretty cool guy. I've actually never lived in poverty because I've never made any money from writing fiction. Even though the car, the only sharam who can assemble it, is my boss, I write down the best I can of what I want to say: A to go, B to me. I ride this, and most of the world doesn't get to ride this easily. I try to make five out of five and three out of three, beneath the mindless passage of time, to accomplish something called planning and regularity. 

Someone who doesn't know it, and you who are shamelessly overweight, are just average or below average. But all the same, you did your chores at home, you had a perm, and you never learned anything virtual other than to stick to yourself sometimes. So. I write. In. notebooks. with. a. pencil. you. say. and. you. stare. into. the. void, never. erasing. what. you. wrote. about. me, so. I. write. 

I wonder if anyone ever understood what I wrote. I can't imagine. easily.