“I can’t leave this place”. The performance was over hours ago and yet I linger… a warm bed and crackling fire, that wakes me up to hundred meters from this very spot is not home. This is my home, this is my sanctuary, this is my heaven. 

How fortunate I am not having to wait till death.

Wraps me in its arm to deliver  me the Walhalla. I’m there, years before my pointed time.

Do you feel as I do about the theatre?

It’s the aroma of that aged and cricking wood that shapes and forms this temple, not Ambrosia?

Was there ever a glass or mirror of more beautiful, more truthful in it’s reflection of this absurd planet, than that precise and perfectly dimensioned jewel box we referred to as the stage!

Of indeed it is drama! The players are all here in my mind, waiting for flash of an idea for the curtain to rise, preparing in their tiny little cubicles , pacing nervously in their miniscule dressing rooms until this crazed creature archive’s inspiration and calls out: “Ladies and gentlemen, places please!”

O, God will it never cease?

What forces of the compels me to write so incessantly day after day, page after page, story after story. The answer is simple: I have no choice! I’m a writer.

….And then the public reads it: “Yes, charming, clever….Charming but a far cry from Tolstoy “…. Or  “ A fine thing , but Turgenev’s  ‘Father and Sons’ is better”. And so it will be to my dying day…. Charming and clever, charming and clever, nothing more…. And when I die my friends will walk by my grave and say: “Here lies so and so, a good writer, but Turgenev was better” …..