Writing and Hollow-ness
tw: mention of injury, self-harm
Two months without an entry.
Why? Why not write about anything? I made this for the purpose of getting better at writing, didn't I?
I suppose it feels pointless. No matter what I do, what I write, it all feels amateurish and hollow. And sure, that is the general feature of someone who writes without writing, in their own head. Rivers look easier to cross from the bridge, and then you get shocked when you swim against the stream.
I am boring. My prose is bland, straight to the point, and whenever I read something other people manage the difference is stark. "Just don't compare." is a useless advice. You can't stop water-paint seeping into surrounding water by mere force of will - it is the attribute of physical properties. And my brain is permeable. Nothing I can write is engaging, or meaningful to anyone, me included - it is a worthless exercise. And no one teaches you how to snap out of it. They just tell you "hey just don't do it" and think they up-heaved your whole world. As if mere words of theory tell a quarterback how to throw, or when.
Second of all, I truly know nothing. This blocks more of my fictional input than my non-fictional, but then again, all of it is there. How do people kiss? How do people drive? How does Napoli look? Nothing. But it extends to other stuff. Why should I fucking do review on game I like, when I like diction and distinguishing what's good? Simply parrot whatever is there, and someone already said way better? Does it even add something to me, to see my words reflected and babbling?
To point, look, I simply replicated three paragraph essay from schools. Babies write this type of things and then get graded C. No creativity, no playing with structure. Everything so rigid.
But three point there be, and this is the most important, as the law of raised stakes states plainly. I have no fucking idea what I could write about. No story rests inside me. I haven't had an original story idea in years. I don't give a fuck about any character I could create. Fanfiction has come and gone, but no idea stays in my head. As for non-fiction, well, again. Nothing that seems to be worth doing, and since I am both stupid and boring there is combo of nothing that is quit worth writing. Normal journaling is also out as it's something that doesn't appeal to me in the slightest - not to mention most of time if I journal something out, I just get more anxious about it, or I just think the same things I did before. I see no fucking point in journaling and frankly, to me, it's one of these fucking psyops psychologists have so they don't have to actually work with their patients properly.Even if I do get a flash of an idea, the amount of energy needed to accomplish it is so vast, I just reject it. So, all in all, there is nothing. Nothing.
Sometimes I dream about breaking my stupid worthless hands. Because, honestly, is there any point to them? I won't do it, because I am scared of pain but it keeps appearing in my brain, every-time I stare at my keyboard. Why do I have these?
That was morbid. And unfortunately, there is no happy ending. It's just been difficult for me. Writing and imagination and telling imaginative, clever stories has been my dream since childhood, yet now it turned into a bloodied corpse.
Born with a heart stone. That's my deal.