Lack-of Assignment

I know this blog is supposed to be for our assignments but, seeing as I didn't do the assignment, I'll just write something in regards to writing.

In all sincerity, my mind is shattering. Despite the stereotype, this lack-of alcohol has me spiraling downward even faster as the constant pressure of non-intimate classes and malignant, everyday duties take hold. I write, write, write, except I find I'm constantly taking a peek from my strangely high cliff of Ego, looking down on the rowdy, bright-lit plains of commercial writing and quality writers.
Envy is the only thing on my mind, other than suicide, respectively.
There is no tale of mine that competes, no novel project I stand behind with fists clenched. This is "art," I'm supposed to be tapping into something human, something unearthed but clouded, except I can't stop writing stories involving some sort of "monster," metaphysical being or quazi-satanic demon.
It's the same thing; I'm just unhappy, always unhappy, except I can't even get that down accurately on page.

This blog is an example of failure. It's 11.30pm, I woke up an hour ago. Because of my constant push towards writing, I know that I should be sitting in front of this thing writing either something new, or editing something old. I have all night, except I can't even pretend to desire something of once-before passion when the only thought upon my mind is a beer, razorblades and wine.
So I write this blog, which, despite it's ultimate purpose, hope will give me something.
It's not. Once the amber-streaks invade the mind it appears there is no cure other than the lust itself.

Getting nowhere with this.

Are we really expected to keep passion towards a project? Am I truly to have faith in my own novel feeding off the blackest-desires of my head? Though they are the same color they are not the same shade; no sadness is one in the same.

I write nothing. Again.

"Sand's overrated. It's just a bunch of tiny little rocks." Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind