Ask a writer,
why does he write.
Is there not enough for a reader?
Is it a desire to share a thought,
selfish urge to plant a seed of your disease in a foreign mind?
Who wants your subjective view?
Who cares for your sweet longing?
Who pities your lonesome howl?
Its a self-deception, that you write for the subject's sake,
or for the beauty of form and figure and meaning,
to shed a light into ambiguity,
to solve a problem.
But its not!
There is no problem in your science.
There is no revelation in your books.
Just an old man,
a treacherous catcher of human souls,
an insatiable glutton for attention,
a fame lover.
So why do you write?
Is there use for this ordeal and torture of mind,
or you are too naive to think, that some curious one will spot you between the lines, and dig for the hidden pearls of your world.
You think there is an honest reader out there.
But you are awfully mistaken.
There is only a buyer or entertainer or both.
So enough of pretension!
Reveal your true face!
Cry out loud, that you do it for nothing, but a selfish mind.
No one, but for your own self.