Imaginative Pity Party For One

Writing has become yet another exercise in futility in a long list of my failures. I seem to have overestimated my ability and/or potential in this arena. Not only am I sorely lacking in grammatical prowess but I seem to also have an unfortunate lack of talent as well as the inability to write anything of interest to anyone.
Much of my lack could be attributed to my rather spotty education, but I fear that I would be only perpetuating the false hope of the self-deluded, were I to encourage such hypotheses. In essence I find myself at the familiar crossroad of shall I go on failing and feeling more and more inadequate with each attempt, or shall I retreat to my warm cocoon of mediocrity and inertia never to emerge again but remain a stunted pupa? As things stand now, the pupa is looking far more appealing than the wet, wrinkle-winged, and crippled, moth that lies on the other side of this metamorphosis of pretense.
Sadly, I have been endowed with a grand sense of ennui and the unfortunate affliction of dilettantism. This fusion served me well as a fifteen year old but as a forty year old, it has cast the pallor of the pathetic over my entire life. With every half-hearted attempt, the faint wisp of belief and passion dims, and I lose sight of the things that once drove me to keep trying in the fog of my current reality. The labels I have chosen for myself do not fit, and I lack the conviction to make myself into the facsimile of what I thought I wanted everyone to want me to be.
So why do we wander into the realm of the divine? Where does the presumption come from, that this is allowed or even desired? I look around myself and see the infinite numbers of the more worthy that pass me on their way to new glories, and marvel at my hubris for daring to try to catch a peek, for brushing against the hems of their robes.
As lofty and mystical as the talented are they are also masters of the craft, they form images and sentences that follow the arcane rules of grammar to perfection, their spells bringing forth the most holy of holies: Literature.
I am but a scullery-maid in the House of Wordsmiths; I lack even the understanding to gaze upon the grand visages of her Lords. I have flirted with the stable a boy a few times and have seen the Master look upon me with wanton curiosity but that is as far as I shall ever get, a desperate an illicit assignation in the stable with the illegitimate son of the king.

You Snooze You Lose

I had a blog before but for what I may only assume was my neglect it appears to have been removed. C'est la vie. This new venture promises to receive much more of my attention as I have nothing better to do these days.
I have been frittering away my time attempting to emerge as a passable writer, I have now decided that this was a futile endeavor from the beginning and have switched my goal to the far more attainable one of becoming an atrocious writer and pain in the ass, in the safe little world of my blog. If some unwitting passer-by happens upon the corpses of my stabs at writing here, then it may only be construed as fate, I dare not subject anyone to my heinous scribblings on purpose.
So you poor unfortunate souls who land in the quagmire of words I mash together here do forgive me and feel free to comment. I am just desperate enough that any attention be it negative or positive is a boon.