archetypalgrey

I put myself under a great deal of pressure to produce results almost all the time, and I'd say that at least 60% of the time I fail to live up to my expectations. Then I invest hours upon hours of time in tormenting myself until I feel guilty enough that I may well have not wasted my time, but rather committed every act of vileness perpetrated by the earth's population during that time frame, effectively poisoning the collective human spirit as if it were a sickly and shameful pet put to sleep because loving it hurts too much, and curing it isn't cost effective. Of course... I do NOT do this literally, I actually sort through boxes of paper, or waste time flipping through magazines for art inspiration, or sluggishly plowing through websites looking for something I remember from way back when -- and after hours I forget why I wanted to rediscover it. It's these things that I do, instead of working on my novel, or doing some decent artwork, or at least getting my web domain filled out, that seem to me to deserve a punishment for all humanity's ill doings. Its pathetic, and I recognize the selfish martyrdom in it, and still I can't help it.
Why is it that failure to be creative makes me feel deserving of severe punishment, to make good with an audience that doesn't exist.
Its been like this for far too long, there's waves of inspiration once in a while but it never lasts, I've had a writer's block crushing me for nearly two years now and pretty soon I'll find myself the forgotten slave who became a permanent part of the pyraimid that I had hoped to one day stand atop.
On your way down from the peak, whisper to the stone. Tell me how beautiful the horizon glowed, and the dawning gold dreams will be the masochistic satisfaction I will never share in the glory of.
I can be more pretentious if I try harder, really, shut me up.