It's sad that it takes so much to get me to write, now. Without
restraint, without an outlet of any kind, I find that I'm not suffering from a
buildup of pressure, as I had expected... Instead, I find myself with no
motivation, no
inspiration whatsoever. Writing has ceased to be anything to me, at all.
Instead, I find myself surfing aimlessly, reading the words of those more passionate than myself.
...
Last night I dreamed about
family, and the only thing I knew of it when I awoke was that they hated me. They all hated me, every last one, for being who I am, and not being what they felt I was capable of.
It is only on later
reflection that I ask myself if I might not share the same feelings.