The conoisseurial error

What is the point of being a writer? To unearth some unspoken truths? I can’t see any truth in anything, only unfathomable chains intertwining. Perhaps that’s why I can write things like the following with such ease and conviction – or rather, I need no conviction to write it. No certainty required. But as soon as one becomes better at something one is immediately alerted to how terrible everything was preceding it.

I can’t help but gravitate towards work that allows my natural laziness to spread like sour butter, left on the counter too long. Nevertheless, I enjoy labouring under the delusion that I am an upstanding member of society, that I have increasingly become so as the unwanted years scour their rings into my face. As a scientist, I enjoyed the comparison to my former administrative self, whose days were endless wet open yawns drinking cup after cup of tea and, oftentimes, was known to pass leisurely from one end of the office to the other in order to enquire as to whether anyone else would like a cup too.

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