There's something bad wallowing in my blood, spreading with every heartbeat. Every day I wake up with a sick feeling inside. I want to purge myself of this feeling but I don't know how. I used to get through by ignoring yesterday but that's just a quick fix. I can't start from zero every morning.
No wonder I can't get things done. Castles in the air can't be reached when you keep smashing up the foundation. Fucking perfectionism. Yeah, I'm a perfectionist. How I hate that word. This is the one and only time I'll ever call myself that. But it's true. Things are never good enough for me. I don't think that writers are ever through with the stories they dream up. It's neverending destruction and reconstruction. The binding of paper that gets put on the shelf is just one version of the story, the one that was given up on.