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something is wrong. i can not concentrate on anything anymore. i pulled up my story to work on it but i cant finish it. i know i will never finish it.

some people say you should not give up on your writing. but what do they know? there are people who write things, who write stories, that they wanted to write but they arent worth reading. maybe i am one of them. maybe it doesnt matter because its not worth reading and its not as important or interesting as i think it might be.

for every one person discouraged about his writing that’s good there’s a thousand people discouraged about their writing that’s horrible. so the odds aren’t good.

they never are for me.

my room seems to be a metaphor for my head. it’s a mess. and no matter how much i try to keep it clean and organized, it all goes to hell. there are books on the shelf like facts in my head collecting dust untouched and unconsulted when most needed.

scattered pages with random half-written stories under the bed, in the corners, under the coffee table. why don’t i just pick them all up and throw them all away already

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