This is not real life.
Go towards the light. The exit is up ahead.
Finish reading this post, close the window behind you, and emerge into the brightness of a new day. There's nothing here for you anymore. The PostSurf project is complete.
I am not Lewis Samuels.
That ended long ago, amidst the pixels and fuckery, clammy clickthroughs, custard pudding bastards, vitriolic comments, tags, tapioca fuckwits and strewn code. A writer does not write the truth about themselves. They leverage words to obscure things. They write the truth about other people, and leave themselves out of it.
The surf industry is not surfing. My brief forays into the dark, sickly heart of the matter have reminded me of that. Over the course of the last nine months on PostSurf, I've simply tried to remind others of this fact. The PostSurf story has proven my point.
Now I'm choosing to be born again, from the ashes of this enterprise. We learn inevitably, and with regret, that there are powers out there greater than ourselves. So now I'm free to wander squalid foreign shores; free to use words to obscure new truths in different ways.
If it seems like there's more to this decision than what I've revealed... well, remember what I told you about writers.