Sorrow and sickness follow me to the ends of my days. The bleak emptiness of the cavern waits for me. If I knew what was down there, it would be easier. But instead it claws at my insides and I wake screaming in my head.

Lastly I wait for it to happen. I just put words down but don’t think about them. This is the way to write. Thinking hurts too much. Communication is overrated. But isn’t that what you want to do? To communicate? All your ideal choices have the same result: you are rewarded for communicating, for achieving, for showing the world a new window. You throw off the shadows on the wall and embrace language. You accept communication in a dead man’s quest for achievement.

And these are just words. Not even words that are put together well. They are just words that…what do these words do? What do you hope for in these words? Can you ever achieve these hopes? Or is it empty hoping. Are you content to hope and dream or do you want to achieve? I do not know. These words are just words. These ideas are bland. They never lead anywhere. It’s a shame. You have talent, and yet you won’t open yourself up to that talent. You wont’ let yourself achieve, become. I want to, you know. I really do. I dream and fantaszie about it. But in the end, I sit by myself and pound away words that don’t mean anything and don’t fit together.

How is it supposed to be done? What is it supposed to bring about when I actually achieve? Why don’t I achieve. These are all good questions. Good responses. Writing is hard. You’re supposed to suffer. And yet you don’t. You don’t suffer. You barely do anything to achieve anything. It’s a sad existence to see and understand what you want, but to never get there.

A genius? Surely you’re not that. You’re barely a mechanic. I need an idea. You’ve had lots of ideas, they’re all inferior. They don’t bring anything forward, or allow you to achieve—that’s an important word today. I don’t know why you keep using it, but you do. I want to be impressed by it, but I’m not. Oh for red fllors covered in jagged edges. Why do the ants not crawl? Why do I think it’s time to return home and nap. Sleep is your escape, your one true friend. How few friends I have. How rarely you surround yourself with anything that excites you. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it at this rate.

Peter Jackson is a genius. I am a hack. A poorly educated hack. Why is that? Why don’t I get anywhere? Why can’t I embrace creativity? Why do I spend so much time analyzing how much a failure I am and spend almost no time trying to break the habit of failing? It’s my lot in life, my rut, my punishment. To know there is something out there, something I can achieve, and not to achieve it. That is my curse.