[image from deviantart.com] I can not understand the reasons for all this aggression and all this competition. I seem to perpetually
live in a work by Samuel Beckett.
attend a school of journalism, like most people in this world.
The problem stems from the fact that I do not inflict against my colleagues, not crazy if someone writes a piece that I would write, if I sign a piece on the front page of our newspaper or on the home page of our website.
I have not the crazy presumption that our timid redazioncina both the New York Times and I'm struggling to win the Pulitzer.
But there are people who fight valiantly against the windmills, trying to bully to show that is made for this job, who can write better than others, which is paradoxically better than others.
As if we had the real players.
As if we were really somebody.
One of my companions, as well as my friend, Ciccio, argues that this behavior has its origin in the frustration of people who see themselves solely on published sad little pages of our rivistina, which they see as an outburst of life than their visibility. Even if I obstinately
first to say that no, it was so, that we must love and all these menate from American TV series, I realized sadly that is so.
But I was even sadder when I realized that these people will never really career and take the frustration of wanting to be someone in the grave.
live in a work by Samuel Beckett.
attend a school of journalism, like most people in this world.
The problem stems from the fact that I do not inflict against my colleagues, not crazy if someone writes a piece that I would write, if I sign a piece on the front page of our newspaper or on the home page of our website.
I have not the crazy presumption that our timid redazioncina both the New York Times and I'm struggling to win the Pulitzer.
But there are people who fight valiantly against the windmills, trying to bully to show that is made for this job, who can write better than others, which is paradoxically better than others.
As if we had the real players.
As if we were really somebody.
One of my companions, as well as my friend, Ciccio, argues that this behavior has its origin in the frustration of people who see themselves solely on published sad little pages of our rivistina, which they see as an outburst of life than their visibility. Even if I obstinately
first to say that no, it was so, that we must love and all these menate from American TV series, I realized sadly that is so.
But I was even sadder when I realized that these people will never really career and take the frustration of wanting to be someone in the grave.
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