I hope I can make a complete thought out of this. I've been locked into this bad pattern for so long. I often feel like I want to write stories, or poems, or essays, or songs. Years ago I used to let myself do it. I was lazy and overconfident but I still managed to get down several tens of thousands of words, more than I've ever written since then. Nowadays I still feel the desire, but it's polluted with shame, guilt, and fear. I feel it as a yearning, and as a kind of stinging pain that set's my teeth on edge and tenses the muscles in my chest and back as if I was face to face with a mad dog. The dull ache of focusing on a blank page starts to throb.
I think the worst thing is it happens now even when I try to read. I used to read a lot, and I think that helped me write a lot. Reading helps to inspire, and also to bolster vocabulary. I find myself at such a loss for words these days, I know what I need is to read more. But when I try to read I can't focus. I'm always dissecting what I read, analyzing it, resenting and envying and using it as fuel for self hatred. I think to myself:
"Why aren't YOU writing? Isn't that what you want? Haven't you got to start now if you want to outdo this masterwork? But what chance do you, have anyway? Is writing really what you want? You never write, so you must not want to be writer. Aren't you really just a pleb? A prole? A degenerate with no ambition or patience or virtue? Isn't that why you have no useful skills? Isn't that why you know you must eventually take your own life? You are no use to anyone! You will die or you will be a homeless failure caked in dirt and shame!"
It's so rare that I can quiet my mind enough to enjoy anything for its own sake, in the moment, much less enjoy reading. The only things that come close are movies, music and video games. These are how I spend much of my free time. I am immersed more easily in these things, and I'm less easy to distract. They are my escape for hours. In many ways they are my primary reason for living. Yet they are not a perfect refuge. Not at all. Cruel moments always come when I think:
"This is so wonderful. This is so spectacularly wonderful, and who knows how many people don't know about it, or don't appreciate it for what it's truly worth! What could there be to demonstrate to them the glory hidden beneath the surface of their imagination? Words? Words! I must find the words!"
Then the moment passes, I remember how afraid I am of everything and everyone, and I go back to slowly vegetating.