In my failed design, being a great writer would ultimately allow me to ignore, and therefore somehow overcome, the primordial feelings forming my facade. I was detached, instead of empathic, with myself. Even if the future rendered it all a prologue, this route was not healthy. Not enough, not for me.
What I had not counted on was the schism. My artistic side, the fearless crusader, and ego, the protector of needless insecurity and inefficient coping mechanisms, were diverging. Two ships headed in an opposite directions.