Trash all of it.

All of my writing.

Today, I’ve come to the conclusion that I dislike my writing.

No, more of a unsuppressable hate for it.

It’s unstructured, unrefined, and likes to go on a tangent.

Which to me, is utterly disgusting.

Most of it is caused by my dislike for review and revision.

Which originated due to my severe dislike for my writing – so much I don’t even want to reread it.

Ever.

Especially pieces I’ve written in the past.

Past me always seems to depress current me.

The few works that I do think are decent, after analysis, are quite… empty.

They don’t contain anything. Just pretty words tied together by their own tragic fate. Hung around a string like a necklace, each patiently waiting for the string to snap, setting them free.

Unlike many, my life has been pretty… unexciting. There are neither crests or troughs in the ocean of my life. The slight variance is a rarity here.

Thus, there is no backbone to my writing. It’s just empty. No content to fill the empty bottle I’ve molded with my words. It sits alone on the table, unwanted and untouched by many. Sits there alone, waiting for one day to be opened and filled to the brim with content.

And that is only the beginning.

My essay writing, it in itself is terrible.

There’s no focus, no evidence, no interlocking ideas. All it does is flow.

Flows from one end to the other, silently moving, hoping to be noticed by the observant eye. In it are the minerals wanted by many, separated and hidden in the refraction of light. Split beyond the size of quarks, closer to strings.

No one notices. No one cares to bring a microscope and hunt for the treasure.

But what about improvement? I should have improved from grade 6 or 7, right?

I have.

Crawling from the bottom of a bottomless pit. Slowly moving, one step at a time. Each movement slowed as time circles around, taunting and teasing. Even time gets bored of itself, leaving it isolated, 4 steps from where it started – the bottom. Staring from above, the others pick up their pace, jumping two steps at a time. Each laughing and generating happiness 7 or 8 steps above.

Not much of an improvement.

You can improve!

They tell me.

The improvement factor is caused when the mistakes are found and revealed to the author.

The radiance of it’s contents, locked away. Hidden under the damp wooden plank that is the lid. Locked away with a key. The key, pushed to far back, lost amidst the thoughts of sleep, like, crime, punishment, and happiness. It’s contents lost, forever shadowed by more pressing concerns – life.

Why?

I don’t reread.

Ever.

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