So I write. I write and write and write. It must all be good for something, right? It's so hard, it's so hard. I write and write and my mind grows in leaps and bounds, yet the place I need to get is so far away, I might as well have not even started. I want to live my fantasies, nothing short of enlightenment, revolution. And yet, for all that I write and write, I still can't call myself a writer. My stories fragment and drift away, my fantasies are... are...
It's a wall, a great fogged glass window. I reach for something inside myself, I can feel it coiled like a snake, pooled like a reservoir. I know it's there. But when I try to realize my fantasies, to bring the wondrous visions in my head out to a story, all I get is a pitiful, warped copy of what I see inside myself. It's more than the limitations of the medium; I have seen what stories can do, the only thing I can come up with is something is wrong with me. The glass, I am looking at my dreams through fogged glass, unable even to see clearly what I can't help knowing is there. That glass is... the reason every effort I make to create produces nothing but frustration.
I'm a rat in a cage, a starving child cast out on the streets with my nose pressed to the bakery window. It's too painful, I can't even stand to stay there. Watching the wonderful things I can't have, I would rather try other paths. Yet I am drawn like a moth, all paths in the end lead to this accursed wall.