People everywhere are living my dream. Right now. As I write this. Every single one of them I thought were only mine have been spliced and diced into tiny shiny cubes that are imploding my dream into the palms of others.

My dream starts with difficulty and then accelerates into sheer raw pain and finally explodes into a gratuitous sigh as all the pain slips away and I am transformed into a ball of light. Free, brilliant, powerful and beautiful.

Will I ever have an exclusive projection that is solely mine? Will I ever find a calling that no one else is plagiarising? Bloody shit!

Must I be reduced to rehashing my dream after it was eaten and passed through someone else's gut?

Frustration, what's not to know? It's balled up inside of me like a twisted globe of rubber bands. Bruising my innards like a rancid, hardened hair ball. I cough, but all it does is nestle stubbornly against the folds inside. It's a tumour. That moves.

I want to spit it out on a carpet and watch it writhe and become still, without a host. But how? Where is that idea, that magical moment, that light bulb? I almost feel like we're fresh out, because of those damned idiots! Idiots who won't let my ideas be. Why won't you go die in a jungle somewhere? Away from me! WHY?

I must become quiet and drown out the noise in my head. That way you won't be hear me, hear my ideas, steal them, feed on them. I must become quiet. I must focus, I must cough up the tumour. I must kill it.