|desperate gasp of inspiration|
there, I said it, "I've run out of bug powder."
Nobody buys Mike Philbin books. Why should they? Mike Philbin is a nobody with nothing ideas. He's the guy you walk past on the book shelves of the shops in your town. He's that guy who bangs about upstairs with his rotting boots on rotten wooden floors whose eyes are open all the time wondering where his life went gasping at the roaches for a taste of the yellow powder that surrogates his coarse creativity. I'm dead, as far as you the book-reading or book-buying public are concerned. Maybe I never existed, like Kafka's roach. A never-been, never mind never-was.
I was a psycho-sexual painter for ten years and didn't sell a single painting. I've been a surrealist writer for twenty years and haven't sold shit for copies. Yet, people loved my art for what it was and I get great 5***** reviews of my books from fellow writers and those who've actually read this stuff, so they know there's something there in what I do. Maybe that's all that matters, in the end. That someone somewhere KNOWS. I wonder why it is that I put myself through this torture. Thirty years wasted?
Maybe it's all in the Advertising Budget, which in my case = $0,000,000.00
I'm not a religious or spiritual person, I'm not a believer in 'any other life than this one' either before our life here or after. I've mentioned this many times. Maybe this is my Awakening to The Reality of Existence. Maybe my trials of non-commercial success is part of my New Path or Other Realisation. All rebels, like all rebellions, like all empires, like all stars and galaxies, eventually fail, falls towards entropy. Become nought, or infinity... This keeps reminding me that zero and infinity are INVENTED MATHEMATICAL CONCEPTS that have no bearing on reality, our brains are just too big, too deceived, too insane.
Funnily enough, I've always just wanted to be an artist, of some sort - still working out what this means.