I could write... I mean ideas, and even sentences keep popping in my head constantly but they all die down on a wall of pointlessness... the pile up of corpses of anything I ever tried in life, words or any action and all.
Yesterday, I was going to post a blog, I was well into it, had a, like 1500 words draft. Then I started editing it, then I just quit.
In the past couple weeks, I had many great ideas to develop... If I could sustain the flow, I'd have many novels and essays to show for, and writing isn't difficult, it's just a flow I can watch, I literally watch my fingers dancing on the keyboard, it's like a direct connection with my brain...
But there is no point in writing when you know that no one will ever read it.
Everything is pointless, useless.
It was my birthday yesterday and I entered a new decade, an age I never thought I could reach: I still feel like a teenager.
On top of this, I am living through a second puberty, I'm in my 7th year of an hormone replacement therapy; estrogen rejuvenated all my tissues, my brain included, so I am practically a teenager but I'm seen as an older folk which is totally depressing, even though I know they'd be totally surprised if I told them how old I am.
So it's a mixed feeling. I have sprouts of creation in my head, I look ten or 12 years younger than I actually am, but the thick wall of uselessness
ah well fuck that useless shit
Dominique Rock
