i heart redundancy

The relentless impulse to write has become an insufferable burden, especially since my confidence in my ability to write has been replaced by fear of rejection and callous ineptness. I feel the stuff I have written in the past was naught of excellence or eloquence. My usages of arcane words has hoodwinked readers into believing I can produce something of significance. I have come to realize that the letters and essays I have wrote, which were meant to deliver a clear, concise, and succinct message of my thoughts and emotions, were constructed out of artistic delusions and not out of literary promise. I found readers got easily distracted by my inane word gymnastics.

And, let’s not forget about my astounding use of grammatical correctness and syntax exactness, which is conducive to that of a self-medicated, half-domesticated, vision-impaired Neanderthal attempting to draw symbols in the dirt. Everything I have produced reeks of sanitation, of overripe garbage. Alas, I’m talent-less. I possess no hidden silver pen, no sharp tongue, or mental agility.

Thus, I have come to the conclusion that I might as well put down this trifle pen and seek out another, less self-defeating vocation. I’m floundering horribly here. Writing has not provided me with earthly refuge from my unliveable plight, but has doubled my frustrations. Dithering in self-debasement, I’m beginning to think that it should be a crime for me to express myself in written form (or in any form), since I envitably fail time and time again.