by Natalie Robin

I realized this morning that I am mediocre. I don’t try very hard at anything, I don’t do very well on anything, and I can’t be better, because most of the time I’d rather not know the truth than be rejected for it. I therefore house, in a kind of of static womb, so many things that end up starved and thus the plasticity of, hardens until all it is good for is firewood; keeping you warm only for as long as it burns off the ever-present cold. I must considered then, making up my own rules; a microcosm of real-life, if there is such a thing as one over-arching, real-life, that would entail my success by way of something other than exposing the truth, either making the lie virtuous or writing fiction, the second of which perhaps, after deliberation, would have to be discarded due to its ultimate exposition of the truth by way of the creative lie.  Unfortunately, I heard yesterday that you need about ten thousand hours of practice at anything to make it a normal part of your routine, and this already makes me tired.