You’d think that all kinds of art would make you feel the same way. But it doesn’t. Music. Literature. Films. And of course, writing. Each of these gives me an entirely different experience, sets whole different moods.
Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.
Life becomes a lot difficult when you’re a cynic or a sceptic. You take it upon yourself to call out the absurdity in most actions and look down on most things that, at some level, you struggle to find meaning in anything that you do. All of life seems to boil down into a vast expanse of pointlessness.