I will not be defeated, even while I am being defeated, even though I am now defeated. I will not give up. I will not let go. I may have lost, but I will not let there be any winners.
I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write. It hurts. I cannot write.
I can produce nothing with regularity. Lack of practice makes my voice clumsy and awkward, and my awareness of this adds a self-consciousness that does it no favours. This day and age does not treat the slow writer gently. I did not have the output to make a name for myself when I could take my hands for granted; I have not even half that output now. I cannot reply to my emails with any depth. I cannot blog for fear of squandering my time. I cannot write. It hurts.
Every time I sit to write and am thwarted by hurt. Fuck it. Every time I find myself not even opening Word. Fuck it. Every time I don't even turn the computer on. Fuck it. Every time I think about picking up a pen and do not. Fuck it. Every time I turn a story over and over in my mind and do nothing about it. Fuck it. Every time I do not act because I'm afraid of the pain and afraid of the damage that comes from being thwarted over and over and over and over and over again.
If these are my rocks then I'll fucking well dash myself to pieces on them. I won't go quietly into the night. I'll take the fucking night down with me.
In the end, I won't be worth knowing. I'll be the bitter scraps of some dream I poisoned deliberately and furiously. I'll hate everyone who knew me as anything else. I'll know exactly what I am, and hate myself for that too.
Written at 19:39 on 16 August 2010