About a year and a half ago a friend of mine tragically passed away very unexpectedly. I remember feeling gutted, yet being strangely relieved in the knowledge that one of the last conversations I had with her was me persistently and irritatingly extolling her virtues. I committed then to being more honest in my dealings, not pretending I felt different from what I did. I've come to realise that this is only half of what I should've set myself on.

Honesty is about more than just saying what one feels, it's about being what one is now, not what one was, for one can never be what one was. Worst of all is pretending to be something that one never was and never will be.

I have never been an artist, just an antiquated, contrary bastard refusing to be bested by anything. Instead I pretend that sitting here commenting on my approval of different people's works is edifying in some way.

I blame it on some sort of consumerism of the soul, one feels inclined to buy into things to improve or enhance one's self-image, ignoring the bleak absurdity of the affair. But I've grown tired of this, and I will on into the infinite abyss without the pretensions of artistry.

I've never belonged here, I'm neither arty, nor crafty, nor inclined to share my work with anyone. My early "watchers" will know of the reticence with which I've posted anything here.I no more belong here than I would in America; I may speak somewhat of the same language, but no one could but take me for a tourist.

So I'll now go and have my browser delete my log-in details and remove Deviant from my favourites; comment all you would like, only you will read them.