I’ve just been up listening to music tonight, and I’ve just got so many ideas flowing through me right now that I can’t even begin to describe them. I want to write. I want to paint a picture using words - provide the kind of imagery for the reader that comes from within themselves as opposed to just something explicitly shown to them via some kind of visual medium. That’s the beauty of writing; the variety of ways that the reader can picture the descriptions in their own imaginations leads to a vivid experience for all parties involved. I want to be the one to form that connection and to inspire that kind of imagination from whoever is reading my work.
Yet, I’m cuckolded. I want to write. I want to be the one to forge that path between the reader and the story, but at the same time I can’t because I just don’t have the spirit anymore. I don’t have the same drive that I used to, all I have is this hollow husk of what used to be where I dreamed up all of these scenarios and ideas. When I think about it, the concepts I come up with aren’t any good. Nothing is special anymore. I’ve got such a passion and lust to just let it out, but at the same time, I’ve just got such a self-defeating attitude about the whole thing that I just can’t be arsed to even try. I know it wouldn’t satisfy me, nor would it satisfy anyone else.
Blargh. This is kind of a minor problem, but it’s just so frustrating. I can never be pleased with myself in anything I set out to do, but at the same time I just don’t even want to try to make myself happy either. I just want to wallow in my own pool of mud and blood about how much I suck at everything :V