To write in the middle of nowhere, or among the trees in the sunny, honeysuckle countryside, is a paradise of inspiration. The wood from your cottage, the trees by your window, stroking the glass, and even the feel of the wood of your pencil and lead, is a comfort. A gateway into your free and wild imagination. Mother Nature is warm and welcoming; open your window and let her sense and scent in. Birds sing and hop from branch to branch, and rain cools us and heightens the sense of the earth, its fertile soil. And don't forget the apples, green and red, and that fox peeping through the bushes, then it lies in the sun. That is inspiration. That is a good place to start writing.
You're saying no one is as honest as they appear; that no one is ever honest, not even to themselves. You say no one is at least openly honest, ever. I believe cynicism isn't just about being pessimistic about the world and the people, but thinking everything good in the world is a lie. Everything is a lie, and truth and kindness are illusions created by us, here, on this planet. What are we to you, then? Will you give an honest answer? I at least knew adults who lied always when I was very young.
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