The Simple Joys

One of my greatest pleasures in writing has come from the thought that perhaps my work might annoy someone of comfortably pretentious position. Then comes the saddening realization that such people rarely read.
-John Kenneth Galbraith, economist (1908-2006)

Would that be why I don't write as often as I claim to like? Would this be the doing of the subliminal signals my subconscious is sending me all the time? Would not writing prolifically be a manifestation of the fact that I hate and absolutely detest most of the people around me?

People who would not change? Change for the better? Or change for the worse, so that I'd have a new you to hate? Wouldn't you break the monotony? Wouldn't you try evoking my loathing so that I can be happy about it later on? Wouldn't you allow me my share of happy memories?

Would'nt you let me self-schaudenfreude?

Wouldn't you be one of the pretentious?

As said, such people rarely read.

PS: This post managed to travel faster than light, and hence is futurified. Pushed further in time, this is now the cynosure of this blog, and my current muse.