oh im in love with timothy findley's writing. maybe i should start buying his books to add to my puny collection of favourite contemporary books. he writes the way I want to write myself.. well..but obiviously i cant do it.

the fear of oneself for oneself: i worry that everything i do, my "talents", my thoughts, are merely pretentious endeavours, that happen to have succeeded to this point of my life. well, so what if i wrote a few good essays, did a few relatively ok things? i cannot assure you that i am able to write another. im fake, farce. plastic. perhaps i never had any potential to begin with. perhaps everything i do was never original. that im only a hollow little vessel who plagarises, and lies. i fear.

sigh

damm i think im getting sick.. fer real. im losing my voice and im unbelievably tired lately.. its not even normal..

baa baa black sheep......