This is What I Hear

This is what I hear. This is what I can’t escape. This is why I don’t write for more than five paragraphs at a time.

You suck. You can’t write. You’re just enough about writing to know that what other people can write is good, but at best your writing is derivative.

What can you write that hasn’t been written before? You want to write about depression? Oh wow, like that hasn’t been done by like thousands of others before you. You want to write about music? You can’t sing, you can’t play trombone like you used to (and when you did, you weren’t that great), and your attempts to play guitar are laughable. Why would you think anyone would want to write what you could sputter out about music?

You’re a fake and a sham. The only kindness you get from others is rooted in pity, and pity can’t outlast impatience. People are getting tired of you and your shit. Your only purpose in life is to be a warning to other not to reach too high.

You’re garbage. Your writing is sophomoric, reflective of a mind that is slowly disappearing into despair and confusion. Why don’t you step away from the computer…because you have no business using a keyboard.

How do other people with depression ever manage to create? I really would like to know.