The act of writing is the only creative output I can think of which doesn’t leave me feeling this way. When I write creatively I am left with a sense of completeness, almost a sense of blessedness. Everything else seems like busy work designed to keep me from thinking about things (what things though?) best left alone.

This isn’t about how many softies didn’t sell. If I’d sold every last one of them, there would still be this soul emptiness. Oh sometimes I’m just so weary of it all. Unbidden comes the haunting suspicion that this is how I felt years ago when I sowed so many wild oats. One night stands left me feeling just like this: alone, depressed, angry and hollow. Distraction, then. I haven’t come so far, I’ve just stopped using other people as a means to not think about the unthinkable.

(No feeling of contentment here.)