I am actually very bored at home now. So I shall write something to entertain myself.

I was reading Catcher in the Rye the other day (which i must remember to return BC). And strangely that bit came back to me yesterday. About how there's that period where you're really good at something, yet when you become aware of it, self-indulgence slowly creeps in. And in the end all that's left is a propensity to show off. Not that it isn't good anymore, but you can tell that it's not meant for others to empathise with, but to praise.

Its the difference between that which is genuinely an expression, and that which is a masterpiece. It marrs poignance and merely seeks to impress.

Or simply, it gets to your head.

Perhaps it is an excusable crime though. After all, the great are often given more leeway where it comes to morality. By their very virtue they are often cherished, it has and will always be as such. He is good. Until others like him come, we will have to settle as such.