How strange, a man who could choose to love, but hated instead. Himself most of all. What a pity it was, but that's not what he wanted, right?
He wanted their forgiveness, not their pity. Forgiveness for not being enough. But they thought they saw right through him, they know his ways. And he would agree.
   He's a writer after all, he would say. It's in his nature to dislike himself to the point of ignorance. But when does an act become nature? When does this character he has created become apart of who he is? Or was it that way all along?