It is not that i project anymore into the future and worry about it, at least not the longterm future, it's more that i feel the weight of the present and past too keenly, like a sort of burden. This is like a sort of central theme, fundamental to everything i write, and yet at the same time, one one level it's definitely bland and banal, like discontent of one sort or another generally is.
If i follow strictly my own line of subjectivity, i come to the conclusion that truth is impossible, that words are meaningless, and at that point, if i'm being consistent, i have to fall silent.
Then again, what if it's more banal even than that, that the truth doesn't deserve to be expressed? What a predicament the writer is in when on page one he finds himself thoroughly disenchanted, disgusted even, with expression, if he finds description itself distasteful...